PS 3537 
1913 




AND FAR AWAY 



FLORIDA WATTS SMYTH 




Class ?S 3% ^-7 



GopghtN?. 



COPyRIGHT DEPOSm 



OVER THE HILLS 
AND FAR AWAY 

BY 

FLORIDA WATTS SMYTH 

AUTHOR OF 

"The Varied Orace of Nature* a Face" 







THE POET LORE COMPANY 

PUBMBHERS: BOSTON 



Copyright 19 IS, by Florida Waifs Smyth. 
All rights reserved. 






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The Oorham Press, Boston, U* S, A. 



MAR 15 1314 



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•©CI.A36289 4 



CONTENTS 

The Country of My Dreams 11 

The Sunset Land 12 

Life 12 

Sonnet — Moonrise 13 

The Road to Reims 14 

Sonnet to Keats 15 

Life's Way 16 

French Chateaux 

Romance — Chinon 17 

Chateau of Chenonceaux 19 

The Chateau of Azay-le-Rideau 20 

The Vision of a Twentieth Century Pilgrim 

at the Home of his Ancestors — Amboise 22 

Fontainebleau 24 

The Forest of the Past 26 

French Cathedrals and Abbeys 

Rouen — Normandy 28 

Mont St. Michel— Brittany S3 

Bayeux — Normandy 36 

Cathedral of Chartres 40 

The City on the Hill 42 

Saint Malo — Brittany 48 

The Imperial Throne of Charlemagne 45 

View from the Gorner-Grat 47 

England. 48 



Ireland 49 

English Cathedrals 

Winchester 50 

Lincoln 50 

Ely 51 

Durham 5^ 

Netley Abbey — ^Hampshire 53 

Old St. Paul's Churchyard, Norfolk, Virginia 54 

New York City 55 

A Vision of America 

Invocation 56 

Part I. The Yosemite Valley 57 

Part II. Santa Barbara 63 

The North- Western Shore 65 

Yellowstone Park 68 

Part III. Along the Gulf 72 

The Carolinas 74 

Virginia 77 

The Eastern Shore 80 

Part IV. New England and the Borderland 83 

Part V. The Central River. 85 

The Jungfrau 87 

Sunrise off Constantinople 89 

A Memory of the "Ionia*' 90 

Milan Cathedral 91 

Cairo Streets 93 

The Rose and the Sand 94 

The Sun and the Moon in Egypt 96 

Strings of Amethysts 98 

Egypt 99 



The Old Ice Witch 100 

The Beginning of Autumn 101 

January and June 102 

The Rhone 103 

Smirise on Pilatus-Kulm, Lake Lucerne. ... 105 

Recollection 107 

Isle of Capri — Bay of Naples 108 

Venetian Fancies 110 

An Answer 113 

Under the Apple Tree 114 

The Pearl and the Shell 115 

The Small Horse-Chestnut Tree 116 

Wild Grape Blossoms 117 

The Ice Queen's Jewels 118 

To a Baby Picture 119 

To a Rose 120 

Spring Flowers 121 

Daisies 124 

World's Work 125 

The Voice of Nature 127 

Sky and Sunshine 128 

Frost Flowers 129 

On Seeing a Flock of Wild Ducks Fly Over- 
head 130 

A Drowsy Afternoon 131 

Heidelberg 132 

Alexandria 134 

Sunset on the Columbia River 136 

To Pike's Peak 137 



Over the hills and far away. 
Out in the open this joyous day. 
Spring woods veiled in a misty blue. 
Broken clouds that the sun shines through; 

All come who will. 

Over the hill. 
Over the hills and far away! 

Down in the valleys the clear streams flow. 
Up on the hilltops the fresh winds blow; 
Drink in the sweetness of rain-washed soil. 
Think no more of the town's turmoil; 

Like a gray shroud 

Clings its smoke-cloud 
Over the hills and far away! 

Follow the roads that twist and wind. 
Hills in front and hills behind. 
Up to the crests where the sunset-light 
Flares and fades round each distant height. 

Night creeps so still 

Over the hill. 
Over the hills and far away! 



OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 



THE COUNTRY OF MY DREAMS 

Somewhere, in a misty twilight 
Far away, 'twixt dusk and daylight, 

Lies the country of my dreams, 
With its meadows ever green. 
Hedgerows long that stretch between 

Quiet roads and running streams. 

Daisies at the meadow's edge, 
Close beside the blooming hedge; 

There the poppy waves and gleams 
Mingled with the cornflower's blue — 
I have seen them, wet with dew, 

In a country not of dreams. 

Rocky slopes, where flower and vine 
Creep and twist, and wave and twine, 

Where the sea- winds never cease 
Blowing o'er an isle-strewn bay. 
Blue and brilUant, far away,^ — 

Gentle winds that ne'er increase. 

Hills tree-covered, earth moss-clad. 
Clear sky, simshine warm and glad. 

From the changing years — release; 
Where the month is always June, 
Where the hour is ever noon. 

And the heart is e'er at peace. 



11 



THE SUNSET LAND 

Rose-tinted land of the western sky 

Set in a still, green sea, 
Rimmed with gold where its bright shores 
he, 

Isles of Eternity, 
Drawing us closer as years go by. 

Pure, and clear, and far; 
Land of peace, where no shadows lie, 

Cheered by the Evening Star. 



LIFE 

To one, alone, thy whole self give, 

Share with him all that thou hast known 

'Till love has deep and deeper grown; 
And die in hope of God's white Throne; 
'Tis thus to live. 



12 



SONNET— MOONRISE 

The full moon rising like a ball, red-gold, 
Above the dark and slumbering summer sea, 
In dreamy billows heaving silently, 
Seeks one straight pathway, glittering, pure, and 

cold, 
Along the line of myriad waves imtold; 
Its light, transfused by some strange alchemy 
From gold to silver, trembles luminously, 
From far sky-line to sandy shore unrolled. 
Here on the beach, each rising wave is lost 
In one dark curve, that breaks with snowy foam, 
And, creeping upward, ever seeks to comb 
The hard-packed sand, forever water-tossed; 
The dashing breakers shine like white hoar-frost, 
And slip back, blending, in their wide, wild home. 



18 



THE ROAD TO REIMS 

The road to Reims, 
, . The road to Reims, 

lis mmgled with my happiest dreams; 

That flash of blue, 
^, 1 That blaze of red,' 
ihat shone where each bright poppy-hea<l 

And cornflower grew; 

If you but knew 
The glory of that red and blue, 
You d never pause 'till you had seen 
Those flowers amid the wheat-field's sheen, 

And added to your happy dreams 

Ihe road to Reims, 

The road to Reims ! 



14 



SONNET TO KEATS 

^*Here lies one whose name was writ in water." 

Deep singer of great Nature's soul, thou Keats, 
At whose Ught call springs up the waving fern, 
And from whose hquid hps we quickly learn 
The sob of woodland winds, the loud heart-beats 
Of all wild life; thou givest lasting sweets 
To those who for the groves' still haunts oft yearn 
At dawn, or when the glowing sunsets bum 
Where every tint on wooded hillsides meets. 

Beneath the shadow of a Roman tomb 
Within a fair grass-plot, beside a gate. 
Around which, trees, forever murmuring, loom, 
Thou liest, not condemned to that sad fate 
Inscribed upon the stone, where flowers bloom 
Above the earth that thought has rendered great. 



15 



LIFE'S WAY 

The breath of scented gardens, after rain, 
Is hke some vanished, half -forgotten pain ; 
The storm-swept flowers their first sweet grace 

have lost, 
As souls when fresh young hope is tempest-tossed. 

Glad youth, untried, looks not beyond the wall, 
Nor heeds when raindrops fast around him fall ; 
He treads the highway of his ot\ti desire. 
Nor sees, nor feels the sharp stones, and the mire. 

But hearts, tear-washed, in memory's gardens 

stray, 
Content to seek that sunlit, peaceful way. 
Where winds blow gently o'er the fresh green sod, 
And every milepost leads to trust in God. 



16 



ROMANCE 

Chateau of Chinon 

I've sought for thee on each fair slope 
Of chateau-girdled old Touraine, 
Through days of sunshine, joy, and hope, 
Or under willows drooped with rain, — 
Those willows, moist and bitter-sweet, 
With clinging odor, subtle, strong, — 
Where, swept on by resistless feet, 
I heard the echo of thy song. 

Thy song, a song that memories trace, 
Like wind across a sleeping stream. 
That shimmers o'er its tranquil face 
To wake the shadows with its gleam. 
Thy voice, the voice of long ago; 
'Twas fathomed by a few, perchance. 
And lingers in those hearts that know 
The gentle airs of old romance. 

That strange, sweet presence in the mind 

That lifts us to a higher plane, 

That dream of chivalry behind 

The chateau-walls of old Touraine. 

A song, thou sayest, that never woke 

A score of souls to feel its power, 

A word that seemed but made to cloak 

The sudden fancies of an hour. 



17 



Yet some pure mind, some heart of gold 
First framed the air that echoes still, 
With notes to charm, and strength to hold 
Its followers 'roimd each magic hill; 
The fair ideal that one may hold 
Forever, in whatever clime. 
For now, as then, some hearts are gold, 
Unsoiled, untarnished for all time. 

The song of chivalry that rings 
Along the Loire, and Cher, and Saone, 
A faery voice that soars and sings 
From Breton shores to rushing Rhone; 
The sunshine filters through the trees, 
The ivy waves along the wall, 
And through the gate a gentle breeze 
Is quivering with its mystic call. 

Below, the Vienne slowly flows 
Between long lines of poplars slim 
And fragrant thickets of wild rose. 
On towards a future, shadowy, dim, 
That springs, Hke mist, from out the clay, 
With thoughts that lead to higher things. 
The glory of a new-born day 
That bears us on triumphant wings. 



18 



CHATEAU OF CHENONCEAUX 

Touraine 

The Cher's clear waters softly flow 
Beneath thy walls, dear Chenonceaux, 
Most fair of all the fair chateaux 

In old Touraine. 
In front are gardens, and the gleam 
Below, around it, of the stream. 
Which truly mirrors this sweet dream 

Of old Touraine. 
Here, as a happy queen and wife, 
Came Scotland's Mary, ere the strife 
Of grief and sin had wrecked her life 

Far from Touraine. 
Dark-browed Queen Catherine here forgot 
Her mm'derous schemes, no bloody plot 
Has ever stained this fairest spot 

In all Touraine. 
Of Queens and Kings best-loved chateau. 
Thy romance-waters, Chenonceaux, 
In dreamy stillness ever flow 

Through old Touraine. 



19 



THE CHATEAU OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU 

Touraine 

Azay! Azay! 

As fair today 

As in thy prime, 

Though walls are gray 

And hearts are clay, 

That beat in the olden time. 

Most subtly sweet 
This calm retreat, 
With answering gleam, 
^ Beneath thy feet, 
From towers that greet 
The circling, moated stream, 

Which pauses here 

To stamp the dear 

Reflection deep 

Within its clear, 

Still depths so near 

The gracious, stately sweep 

Of sculptured wing, 
Where turrets fling 
Their points in air, 
With blossoming. 
And garlanding 
Of royal emblems there. 



Half-sleeping, slow 
The waters flow 
Beyond thy towers, 
With murmurings low 
Where tall reeds grow. 
And heavy-headed flowers. 

With magic moat, 
Untouched by boat. 
And gardens green 
Encircled, float 
Mist-wreathed, remote, 
Thy spell-bound walls, serene. 



21 



THE VISION OF A TWENTIETH CENTURY 

PILGRIM AT THE HOME OF HIS 

ANCESTORS 

Amboisei Touraine 

The dreaming river gently sings 

Some strain beyond our ken, 
That echoing 'round the green hills flings 

Its music back again. 
Some m^emory of an ancient day 

When men, whose names I share. 
With warm hands touched these cold walls 
gray, 

And felt, as I, how fair 
The shimmering Loire lies far below, 

The quiet, peaceful town, 
Low islands 'mid the stream's wide flow, 

The broad view, up, and down 
To Tours, whose towers in slender line 

Like poplars dimly seen 
Thi'o' the haze of summer's soft sunshine 

Beyond the meadows green, 
O'erlook the pleasant countryside, 

White road and shady lane, 
Rich vineyards stretching far and wide — 

My owTi dear land, Touraine. 
Old Nicholas, King's Armorer, 

And all his kith and kin, 
Who flourished in the warlike stir 

When Valois sought new lands to win, 
Here hved, loved, grieved, *mid hopes and 
fears, 

'Till one whose heart beat fast, 
Whose eyes looked farther down the years, 

22 



Who chose a land without a past, 
By journeying, centuries ago. 

To that New France, out in the West, 
Where rivers deeper, swifter, flow, 

To his children left a fair bequest : 
The memory of a shallow stream 

That murmured round its clustered isles, 
That lacked, perhaps, the richer gleam 

Of western rivers' endless miles; 
For thro' his dreams those storied slopes. 

The old gray walls, the misty plain 
Came stealing 'mid the newer hopes, 
Those memories of Old Tourame. 
I know it, for they move me now, 

Tho' centuries part us, soul from soul; 
I may not bear his lips nor brow. 

Might pass unheeding if he stole. 
Ghostlike, along the river road 

Or down this ancient, narrow street; 
But, when I wander where he strode, 

I feel that tho' his restless feet 
Led ever toward a newer land. 

And urged his children on to seek 
A farther west, a lonelier strand. 

Thro' summers short, thro' winters bleak, 
The East wind breathed that old refrain 

When twihght stilled the long day's care; 
He saw the hills of far Touraine, 

And dreamt, that night, that he was there. 



28 



FONTAINEBLEAU 

Long, darkened alleys, shaded ways; 

Soft, underfoot, the sandy loam; 

Gold flashes where the sunlight strays, 

'Mong fluttering beechen leaves to roam, 

Whose twisted trimks, moss-grown and gray, 

Have wrestled with the storm-wind's blast, 

Since wild boars brought the dogs to bay, 

And royal hunts swept proudly past; 

To Barbizon great artists came 

To dwell among the forest-ways. 

And consecrate to lasting fame 

The beauty of its summer days; 

The twinkling leaves by magic drawn, 

The splendor of its dancing light, 

The passing of its misty dawn, 

The shadows of its early night. 

Above the quiet, wooded vale. 

Where gleam the palace's broad wings, 

We linger while the clouds grow pale; 

And memories of many things 

Creep, dim and gray, around its walls, 

Which France's royal huntsman built; 

Where Bourbons filled the stately halls 

With silken sheen, with carvings gilt 

On lofty beams. There still remain 

The glories of the Imperial Throne; 

And still one room, so square and plain. 

With small, round table, bare, alone 

Amid the splendid golden glow. 

Where Napoleon signed his throne away; 

And bade farewell to the faithful row 

Of Guards, drawn up in the court that day 



To see the man, their Emperor still, 

As he came down the wincfing horse-shoe stair 

That led from the zenith of royal will 

To Elba, and Waterloo's black despair. 

A gilded palace! it seems to await, 

In majestic silence, a king, today, 

Each room prepared in its lonely state 

For some rightful tenant's sceptered sway. 



25 



THE FOREST OF THE PAST 

Among the dim, wild pathways 

Of the forest of the Past, 

Tradition bids us linger 

Where sun-meshed shadows cast 

Bright joys and darkest sorrows 

On hearts that beat as ours. 

In the fearful stir of battle, 

In the shade of castle towers. 

O, men and women struggling 

With the dimness of those days. 

When might was right, and suffering 

Came in manifold, sad ways. 

We envy not your ancient names, 

Yoiu- banners brave and gay, 

Nor the tramping of your war-steeds 

In the tourney's rich display ! 

In the fairest chateau-garden. 

In the proudest hall of state, 

There were lurking those who plotted 

With a mediaeval hate; 

But a faint, mysterious glamor. 

Like a sunset's fading glow. 

Lingers 'mid the gathering shadows, 

And a wind, so soft and low 

That it only bears an echo 

Of the struggles long since o'er. 

Gently stirs the dead leaves rustling 

'Mong the pathways, thronged of yore. 

In the tangled woods of story, 

In the mingled roots of life, 

Souls have fought, and sought, and battled, 

Intertwined in endless strSe; 



«« 



So this forest of their strivings 
In the twiHght of past days, 
By the magic of its singers, 
Holds us in its storied maze. 



27 



FRENCH CATHEDRALS AND ABBEYS 

Rouen — Normandy 

In Rouen's spired city, 
'Mid slender, ancient towers, 
Facades ornately sculptured 
With mediaeval flowers, 
And all the rich profusion 
Of graceful Gothic art, 
Its wondrous, lace-like tracery 
In stone, that seems a part 
Of some sublime creation 
Not wTought by human hands, 
The product of a thousand lives, 
A great Cathedral stands — 
A monument to energy. 
To deep-inspired work. 
To heart and hand in unison, 
When no man tried to shirk 
His duty, but for glory 
His portion carved, and sought 
But a small place in its greatness. 
Just one well-sculptured thought; 
One word through countless ages 
In this prayer of many men, 
Through faith, one small petition 
Carved o'er and o'er again. 
And in the mystic shadows 
Of its vaulted aisle and choir 
Loom knightly forms in effigy; 
And, rising high and higher 
Above them, pointed arches, 
And the clear imdying flame 
Of stained glass, burning yellow 
Or richly red. The same 
28 



Painstaking thought has formed them, 
The desire to create 
An everlasting monument 
To all that's good and great. 
Amid the countless glories 
Of Rouen's historic days, 
The Cathedral at its centre 
Draws the town to prayer and praise. 
Tho' many a church be greater 
In height, or breadth, or length, 
This outline, broad, irregular; 
This first tower, built for strength, 
(So plain and square and sohd, 
For old Saint Romain named,) 
In contrast to the carving 
Of the lace-hke front, long famed 
For its rich and ornate beauty; 
And, beyond, the "Butter Tower," 
With its graceful Gothic windows, 
Win us by their well-wrought power. 
The stately tombs of Cardinals 
And Bishops cluster round 
Each chapel's carved magnificence; 
Here Rollo, the renowned, 
Lies close beside an altar, 
The first Duke of Normandy, 
Within a low and shadowy niche — 
A battered efligy. 
The two great Amboise Cardinals 
Kneel, wrapped in silent prayer, 
On a tomb of rarest sculpture 
Wrought with unexampled care; 
The apostles stand above them, 
St. George is by their side, 
The Virtues ranged in fine below; 
And above, beyond, beside, 
29 



Carved arabesques and pendants 

In such tracery of stone 

That the work is still unrivalled, 

Except by that, alone. 

Which stands across the chapel, 

To the brave Due de Breze, 

Diane de Poitiers' husband, 

Who, in mounted war array. 

Rides forth to his last battle; 

Or below, stretched stiff and cold 

In the yellowing alabaster. 

Lies close-wrapped within the fold 

Of his sculptui-ed shroud. The windows 

Shed a mellow^ radiance o'er 

The rich-tinted altar painting, 

And these priests and knights of yore. 

Within the choir's shadows 

Lies entombed that noblest part 

Of the knightly King of Romance, 

Richard the Lion-Heart. 

But the houses crowd too closely 

This ancient House of Prayer; 

One richly carved side doorway 

Called the, "Portail des Libraires," 

Is hemmed about with buildings. 

Where bookstalls down below. 

And churchmen's rooms above them. 

Once filled the gray stone row,* 

That looks through heavy arches 

Across a narrow street, 

O'ershadowed by dark dwellings, 

Worn deep by pilgrims' feet. 

Far down its dun, damp windings. 

In the glorious light of day, 

Shine St. Maclou's wondrous portals; 

And, beyond it, St. Ouen lay. 



The once potential Abbey, 
Of which the church alone 
Remains, — a great creation, 
In perfect-modeled stone. 
With lines of simple grandeur, 
And purest tracery, 
All springing toward its central tower, 
"The Crown of Normandy," 
With many-sided summit, 
And graceful turrets 'round, 
In lacelike stonework sculptured, 
And with slender spires crowned. 
The ancient abbey-garden 
The choir still encloses. 
And grayer seem the hoary walls 
Among the blooming roses. 
Withm is perfect harmony 
Of shafts that upward mount, 
All wonderfully reflected 
In the holy- water fount. 
In the shadow of this building 
Jeanne d' Arc, the intrepid maid. 
Was tried before her judges. 
And faced them, unafraid; 
While o'er the houses, tier on tier. 
There rises still her tower, 
Sole remnant of that chateau built 
By PhiHppe Auguste's power. 
Beside the modern market house, 
Where no arm dared defend, 
The sculptured, snowy tablets, 
And wi'eaths above them lend 
A touch of sympathy she craved 
On that fated day of May, 
When life and light were bitter sweet, 
And friends so far away. 
31 



Upon St. Catherine's hilltop, 

In everlasting stone, 

The wondrous maid is chiselled 

As in life, above, alone; 

Her childish form in armor drest. 

Her boyish hair square-cut. 

Her bound hands clasped before her, 

Her gentle eyes close-shut 

To the woods and winding river, 

To a peaceful life and long, 

That might have been her portion; 

Yet they "sold her for a song," 

The treacherous Burgundians; 

And the Enghsh burned her here, 

To free their shrinking army 

From the superstitious fear 

That encompassed them in battling 

With the vision-haunted maid, 

\Mio fought with boundless courage, 

And struggled, undismayed. 

Against the dread foes, famine. 

And flood, and fire, and sword. 

Until at length defeated 

By a false friend's broken word. 

In Rouen's narrow high street 
The crumbling, gray clock-tower, 
With endless, deep-mouthed clangor, 
Resounds at ciu-few hour. 
For centuries her citizens. 
Thro' weeks, and months, and years. 
Have paused to hear its ringing; 
Sometimes with sobs and tears, 
When enemies and plagues beset, 
And mercy was an unknown word. 
When Uves and souls were lost and won, 
32 



While over all the bell was heard. 

And tolling, tolling, endlessly. 

The great bell drives today away, 

And all that crowded, early life 

Is thronging still the old highway. 

And hastening where Cathedral towers 

Rise boldly from the open square; 

The streets are filled with armored men. 

And knights and squires everywhere; 

Upon the old shops' well-worn sills. 

Beneath the arch, below the bell, 

Which on and on for centuries 

In thunderous summons, will foretell 

The closing of another day, 

In many years of teeming life, . 

When sunset clouds fade into gray, 

And end the day's long toil and strife; 

Another day for old Rouen, 

That boasts ten centuries of endeavor 

Along its winding river-banks 

And wooded hills, unchanged forever. 

Mont St. Michel — Brittany 

Beyond the wet, uneven sands 

Where tiny rivers ebb and flow, 

A long, low line of crested waves 

Marks where the tidal waters grow; 

And slowly creeping nearer, blend 

In deeper flowing eddies, 'till 

The low-lying sand is swallowed up. 

And swift waves flash across each hill. 

In sudden shallow ripples slipping 

With sinuous curves to deeper streams; 

While nearer sounds the sea's low roar 

Where each white crest with sunshine gleams. 



A storm is brooding in the West, 
And suddenly the wind's first blast 
Sweeps 'round the unguarded battlements, 
And rain and tide come fleeing past 
In mingled majesty and strength; 
The air is filled with the tempest's roar, 
The waves are breaking, white with foam, 
And a storm-mist hides the Norman shore — 
Again, "in peril of the sea," 
The Moimt, so called in early days, 
Where first St. Michael's pilgrims came 
To seek its shrine in arduous ways, 
'Mid high tide's roar or shifting sands, 
Though a causeway broad now spans the 

space 
That made the Mount a refuge safe 
For those who sought St. Michael's grace. 
Above the town's one narrow street, 
O'erhung by dwellings, dark with age, 
Where steps lead slowly upward toward 
The sea-wall 's crest, by easy stage; 
Above this heav;s% feudal wall 
That closely clasps its seaward side, 
With broad towers rising from the sands, 
Built strong against the wind and tide; 
Above the town, above the wall, 
Approached by one steep, crumbling stair, 
The abbey rises on the crest 
Of Mount St. Michel — everywhere 
Around it is the restless tide; 
Beyond and to the Eastward lie 
The Norman hills, and Brittany 
Against the stormy western sk>\ 
The heavy-towered entrance way 
Bespeaks the fortress-abbey's strength; 
Within, broad steps wind upward still 
34 



To the church that crowns the crest, in length 

And breadth, and height, a wondrous work 

To poise upon this pointed isle, 

A glorious dream of sculptured spires, 

A landmark of the Gothic style; 

Removed from city's crowded ways, 

Above the ever shifting sands, 

An architectural victory 

For human hearts and hands. 

Below it, in the mountain's rock. 

Are columned crypt, and prison damp, 

And, on the island's seaward side. 

The " Merveille" (marvel) bears the stamp 

Of some great architect of old; 

For on the topmost floor and near 

The church is built a cloistered square. 

Where countless sculptured pillars rear 

Their slender shafts and capitals 

Around the open courtyard, bright 

With sunshine at a summer noon. 

And very near the stars at night. 

From out these windows one can gaze 

On rocky cliff, and swift brown sail, — 

The story of the sky and sea. 

The terror of the tide and gale, — 

And in this wondrous marvel, built 

Against the island's rugged face. 

Are vaulted halls for monk and knight, 

Where French kings oft have sought for grace. 

Louis Eleventh founded here 

The order high of "Saint Michel," 

And proudly in each Castle hall 

Was worn the pilgrim's gilded shell. 

The sea is mounting high and higher, 
We fear 'tis late to leave the isle; 
35 



The sun is setting *mid a fire 

Of clouds, close-heaped in thunderous pile; 

The tide is beating at the gates, 

The ocean has o'erleaped its bounds. 

And loud above the boatmen's cries 

Their wild, excited voices drowns. 

The causeway stops without the walls, 

And still, when tides are breaking high, 

A boat must span the watery space 

That seems so short when sands are dry ; 

And though it were a simple task 

To bridge it well, and walk dry-shod 

At highest tide within the gate — 

What weariness fore'er to plod 

O'er easy ways and graded paths ! 

The boatmen still rejoice, and we 

Have seen the Mount of "St. Michel," 

And crossed, "in peril of the sea.'' 



Bayeux — Normandy 

Across the fresh green Norman fields 
That circle round the tile-roofed town, 
The smooth road, flower-bordered, winds, 
In dazzhng whiteness, gently down 
Beside a pleasant little stream 
With buttercups fringed, and daisies white; 
Then on among the gray house-fronts, 
And garden walls that hide from sight 
Box-bordered paths and arbors quaint, 
Syringa tall, and roses sweet 
With heavy, perfect blooms, each tree 
Trained carefully; some seeking heat 
Against the gray walls climbing close. 
Away from North winds sheltered there, 
36 



Pale yellow petals weighted down 
With perfume steahng everywhere. 
Red peonies in gorgeous bloom 
Vie with the roses in their pride; 
The fruit trees cling along the walls, 
And ivy growing close beside; 
While over all, that rare, fresh breath 
Of garden sweetness, close walled-in 
From streets and passers-by, cold winds. 
And all the world's consuming din. 

Among the narrow, ancient ways. 
Where timbered house-fronts still look down 
Upon the path which Normans trod, 
With William, through the quiet town, 
His brother. Bishop Odo, raised. 
In majesty of rough-hewn stone. 
These two great towers, broad and high. 
Deep-buttressed, standing proud, alone 
Amid the later Gothic curves 
Of nave and choir and central tower ; 
Their heavy round-arched openings boast 
Of strength and age and Norman power. 
And down below the Gothic choir 
An earlier church may still be seen. 
Its heavy pillars roughly carved. 
And shadowy frescoes in between. 
Whose walls were refuge, shelter, hope 
A thousand years, and more, ago; 
Whose tiny windows, now within 
The greater church, once felt the snow 
And fog and rain from o'er the sea 
When cold winds blew, in Wilham's day. 
From the misty north and British shore 
Where the Norman's island-province lay. 
Through centuries of war and storm, 
37 



Through a thousand summers* sun and shade, 

The Conqueror's armies still march on 

To make that great, historic raid 

On England, Saxon England's shores. 

They march in stiff, unbending lines. 

Or load their horses into ships 

With curious beckonings and signs; 

For no sounds break the stillness 

As we see them marching by, 

Their spears in long lines levelled; 

There is no great battle cry, 

No sobs among the wounded; 

And the Duke becomes a King. 

'Tis Matilda's magic needle 

That has made us see the thing 

As 'twas thought-on, planned, accomplished: 

The Conqueror's wife and Queen, 

Who 'broidered it in colors 

With many a quaint old scene; 

From Harold's famous visit 

When he swore at William's knee 

That the future King of England 

Was the Duke of Normandy, 

To the wondrous fight at Hastings, 

And the bravery of each knight, 

The battle-heat, the pillage, 

The Saxon's hurried flight. 

Matilda's tireless fingers 

In a patient work of years, 

When life was sweet and sunny, 

And in days beset with fears, 

On this life-work slowly labored, 

To protest that WilUam's right 

To the throne of Saxon England 

Was inheritance, not might. 



88 



Not on Cathedral columns stretched. 
As 'twas seen on ancient holidays, 
But under glass and guarded well 
From modern pilgrims* curious gaze, 
The quaint, old, endless, faded strip 
Of worsted work still tells its tale. 
A thousand years is but a day, 
And we are fighting with the pale 
And smooth-faced Norman, or beside 
The bearded Briton. England's won! 
*Tis the ending of the tapestry 
And Matilda's work is done. 



39 



CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES 

The narrow streets wind steeply, 
With many a twist and turn, 
Between quaint -windowed dweUings 
To the great front, cold and stern, 
Where figures, tall and slender, 
And partly worn away, 
Of prophets old, and princes. 
And queens, unknown today. 
Are clustered 'round the doorways. 
Whose early Gothic mould 
Bears ancient signs and emblems 
In carvings strong and bold — 
What a strangely sweet expression 
On each faintly smiling queen. 
With slim, elusive figure, 
And queer old kings between. 
Their features worn and broken, 
Their feet placed straight and square 
On squirming forms of deadly sin ! 
One king, in sad repair. 
The Conqueror, wears a woman's head; 
Scarce one but is wounded sore. 
For as early as eleven hundred 
They were placed to guard this door. 
The massive towers above them. 
Each finished with a spire. 
Are perfect art expressions — 
The Northern one is higher. 
And a mass of graceful stonework. 
While the older tower below 
Is rugged, square, gigantic; 
But its spire seems to grow 
In balanced symmetry above 
The well-proportioned base, 
40 



And rivals all the tracery 

Of the North tower's fretted face. 

The ninth Louis, saintly hero, 

And much beloved king. 

Bestowed a richly sculptured porch 

Where crowded figures spring 

From base and florid capital. 

From arch and pillars gray, 

The prophets, knights, and pilgrims 

Most honored in his day. 

Within the mystic shadows 

Of nave and aisle and choir. 

The wondrous-tinted windows 

Burn fiercely with a fire 

Of glorious red and yellow; 

The sunset's briUiance thrown 

Across the misty grayness 

Of this twilight land of stone. 

Where the trees are massive pillars, 

Whose branches clamber high 

Between the sunlit windows. 

And hide the dark blue sky 

With a mass of moveless foliage, 

Upheld by sculptured limb 

And deeply rooted buttress. 

Far down among the dim 

And shadowy aisles that lead us 

Through this forest's unknown ways. 

We wander onward seeking 

The forms of by-gone days. 

That crowded transept, nave, and aisle, 

And chapels round the lofty choir. 

In the shade of mediaeval thought, 

Through which stole rays of holy fire. 



41 



THE CITY ON THE HILL 

Boulogne-sur-mer 

The air is sweet 'neath the branches 
That shelter the moss-grown wall 
Of the lofty, moldering ramparts, 
Where the shadows softly fall 
On a tree-covered, mystic pathway 
That leads romid the ancient town, 
For seven centuries shielded. 
In this circling hill-top crown, 
From wandering knights and bandits. 
By the power of men and stone. 
Since Godfrey, the Crusader, 
Ruled the County of Boulogne. 

The simshine steals across the path 
Half-hid in grassy sod. 
Where centuries of citizens 
And warriors have trod 
The mediaeval ramparts. 
That lie basking in the sun 
Of peace and perfect stillness. 
For their warlike work is done. 
The sea is dreaming down below, 
And all the world is still 
In the gentle summer simshine, 
'Round the City on the Hill. 



42 



SAINT MAJDSriUany 

Like Is, that fabled city 
Beyond the Breton shore, 
St. Malo*s sea-bound battlements 
Re-echo with the roar 
Of the channel's tide; 
It creeps aroimd each islet 
With brown and rugged crest. 
Or leaves the smooth sand tenantless — 
The sea's great, weird unrest, 
That must e'er abide. 

The tide is in! the ramparts 
Are lashed by wind and wave; 
The isles are well-nigh covered, 
But Malouin men are brave, 
And with practised eye. 
Set sail along the channel 
That these fisher-folk have known. 
Since the days when bold Jacques Cartier 
Sought a "New France," free but lone. 
When tides were high. 

The tide is out! The beaches 
Stretch far beyond the wall; 
The sea is sown with islands. 
Disclosed when waters fall 

Around the bay. 
The grave of Chateaubriand, 
On a cliff above the sea, 
O'erlooks the silent basin — 
There the poet dreamily 

In childhood lay. 



43 



Across the bare sand-levels 
We wander toward his isle; 
An old fort crowns its summit, 
And beyond in simplest style 
A cross, rough-hewn, 
The poet's ashes covers. 
The tide is creeping in, 
And soon will swallow up the paths 
With echoing dash and din. 
On rocks weed-strewn. 



44 



THE IMPERIAL THRONE OF CHARLE- 
MAGNE 

Aix-la-Chapelle 

The marble chair, 

The Imperial Throne 
That held the form of Charlemagne, 

Designed to bear, 

Though senseless stone, 
The monarch in his glorious reign! 

And when he died 

His senseless form. 
Stone-cold, was placed with royal mien, 

Unaltered pride, 

Where war and storm 
Might pass it by fore'er unseen. 

At last the light 

Of torches came 
To shed a strange, funereal gleam 

Upon the sight 

Of him whose fame 
Had grown like a descendmg stream; 

Great Otho bowed 

Before that cold. 
Impenetrable, royal face. 

No change allowed. 

But left each fold 
Of the royal garment in its place. 

Then came a king 
And Emperor, known 
As red-beard Frederick, he who dared 
To move this thing. 



45 



To use this throne; 
For the " great Charles ' " fame, he little 
cared; 

But stowed away 

In a marble case 
The stately form, that crowned, upright. 

Still held its sway 

O'er the German race, 
For their hearts enthroned him in pristine 
might. 

Today we look, 

Almost with awe. 
At his arm, enclosed in an arm of gold; 

How oft it shook 

To defend the law, 
That arm for a thousand years stone-cold! 

Along the Rhine 

He wanders still, 
On the hills near Ingelheim, they say, 

When the nights are fine; 

And his royal will 
Is felt in a dim, mysterious way. 



46 



VIEW FROM THE GORNER-GRAT 

Above Zermatt 

So near, so beautiful, so fair 
Those circling mountains seem, 
We stretch our hands to grasp them. 
Like children in a dream; 
We long to cross that icy space 
Where the Gorner Glacier sweeps, 
And touch white Monte Rosa, 
That the snow, in shining heaps, 
Has hidden long from mortal eye. 
Around are countless peaks, 
But only one among them 
With the same insistence speaks. 
Bare Matterhorn! bold headland. 
Thrust straight against the sky. 
The greatest earthly pyramid. 
So strong, and cold, and high, 
Which centuries have left untouched; 
That finger pointing upward still, 

Whose form eludes the world's keen grasp. 

And man's fast-spreading will; 

Its chasms still with danger lined, 

Its slopes still cruel, cold, 

Its rocks forever rugged, 

Its outlines ever bold; 

Its icy walls repel the pick 

That man thrusts in to climb — 

Imperishable monument, 

Deep-seated for all time! 



47 



ENGLAND 

Pale daybreak on the ocean! 

The chalk cliffs, topped with green, 
Rise gleaming in white splendor. 

A longing, clear and keen, 
To climb the snowy headlands 

And touch the fresh, sweet sod 
Of this land that our forefathers 

For many centuries trod; 
A feeling of homecoming; 

Some subtle, mystic spell; 
Some strange and eerie clinging, 

That words can never tell, 
Enfolds me when those headlands 

Rise, white, beyond the sea, 
And my rhythm of soul must break 

Ere its voice be unheard by me. 



48 



IRELAND 

Three o'clock on a cold spring morn, 
Sailing in to the wide, still bay; 

Sweet, soft air from the dark land borne, 
Tinged with the breath of May; 

Moon and sun o'er the shining sea. 
Life asleep on the shadowy shore. 

Hills enwrapped in night's mystery 
As this land in its lore. 

Land breeze stealing across the bay, 
Fresh from the moist, green Irish sod, 

Scent of the flowers along the way 
Our feet have not yet trod. 

Call of the mild and misty land. 

Blooming and green, and cool and sweet; 
Moon and sun on the shining strand 

And the ocean at her feet. 



49 



ENGLISH CATHEDRALS > 

Winchester 

Where Hampshire hills are tender green, a stream. 

That Isaak Walton loved, the Itchen, flows 
Beside the tree-girt, cool Cathedral close. 

As still as if in spell-bomid woods they seem, 
These trees, far down, whose aisles the sunshine's 
gleam 

Caresses long, gray, crumbling walls that rose 
Above a city Saxon rulers chose 

As "Royal Winchester," a fleeting dream. 

Their power fled, but can we ever lose 

The feeling of its presence, who have seen 

Those chests that guard their dust, and still accuse 
The Conqueror, ranged atop the choir-screen; 

While, through the years, the minster-close renews 
As then, its circling coronet of green ! 

Lincoln 

Far across the level meadows. 

Moist and green, of Lincolnshire, 
Rises one bold hilltop, tower-crowned. 

Where, by steep paths, lost in shadows, 

Climb the houses, tier on tier, 
To the ancient minster's hallowed ground. 

Upward men have struggled long 

By these fast ascending ways. 
Past the old carved houses, worn and quaint. 

Toward the great front, broad and strong, 

Fortress-like; in early days 
Wondrous, mighty, in each niche a saint. 
50 



Higher may we climb and higher. 

By a winding transept stair, 
To the upper church's pale gray shades ; 

Then, for those who still aspire, 
- Longing for a rarer air. 
Twist the steps, 'till dayhght wholly fades ; 

Fades, while rougher grows the way, 
Time-worn, foot-worn, narrow stones, 

Built within a corner-turret slim 
Where today seems far away 
When the great bell's deafening tones 

Thunder through the stairway's windings dim. 

Light at last upon the crest 

Of that glorious central tower. 
Air, and light, and stillness over all ; 

Two great towers toward the West, 

Gray in sunlight, black in shower, 
Sentinel -like, above the churchyard-wall ! 

High al)Ove the circling plain, 

Green and level, far below. 
High above the ever-climbing town; 

Great Cathedral, much we gain 

From thy story; for 'twas slow 
Well-laid work that brought thee this renown! 

Ely 

Ely, storied, still, and strange, 

Mystically magical. 
Flings its slender turrets 'gainst the sky. 

Changing not as centuries change. 

While the winds, soft, musical, 
Murmur round the circling tree-tops high. 
51 



Fortress-gates and ancient walls 
Guard the minster's broad domain, 

Locked at eve with mediaeval care, 

When the wheeling rooks' hoarse calls 
Somid in wild, incessant strain 

'Romid slim towers dark 'mid sunset's glare. 

Ely, in that summer twilight, 
Filled my heart with endless longing, 

As I lingered there, — too short the hours, — 
Longing for those walls tonight, 
When the birds come calling, thronging. 

Whirling, circling round the soaring towers. 

Durham 

HaK-concealed by mist and rain. 

Like that island in the sea 
Whence the monks St. Cuthbert's relics bore, 

Looms the church where he has lain 

Century upon century. 
Since those days embalmed in monkish lore. 

Far above the swift l)rown stream, 
Towered, mighty, square and strong. 

Grandest Norman minster Time has spared. 
Remnant of that warlike dream 
Norman prelates cherished long, 

WTien Prince-bishops royal power shared. 

Venerable as Bede, whose bones 

Lie within the Galilee 
Built beyond that nobly-pillared nave. 

Great, unyielding, well-cut stones. 

Lacking Gothic ecstasy. 
But forever calm, and pure, and grave. 
52 



Netley Abbey — Hampshire 

Twilight on Southampton Water wide, 

Sunlight lingering o'er the Abbey hill, 
Far below, the ever-changing tide. 

Here the old walls, proud, unchanging, still; 
Walls that sheltered wandering knight and squire, 

Waiting to embark for France and war, 
Poitiers, Cr^cy, Agincourt, the fire 

Burning through a century to mar 
Norman meadows, fair streams of Touraine, 

Land of the Midi; here they chanced to pray, 
Dreaming one night, before war's joy and pain, 

Dreaming of Heaven, and God's unchanging 
way. 

Splendid the nave: each gracious Gothic curve 

Framed in a mass of clinging, creeping vines ; 
Roofless, but loftier now, a proud reserve 

Lingers, 'mid echoing footsteps from those lines 
Of men that trod this valley long ago ! — 

In shadowy mist the bowmen's ranks advance, 
Passing beneath Southampton's Westgate low, 

Trained to defeat the chivalry of France; 
Crowding the ships that in a favoring breeze 

Gently drop southward, southward to the sea; 
Stronger the wind as fast the white fleet flees 

Over the dim sky-line of memory. 



53 



OLD ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, NORFOLK, 
VmGINIA 

Dear old Virginia churchyard. 

Steeped in rich perfumes 
Of green box with subtle odor, 

And magnolia blooms ! 
Like some ancient, magic circle, 

Your moss-grown walls 
Keep back the struggling present; 

The sunlight falls 
On tablets dim and weather-worn. 

And winding ways, 
Vv'here the wind is gently whispering 

Of forgotten days; 
Of peace that never changeth 

'Mid walks long-trod. 
Of faith that clingeth ever 

'Round this House of God. 



54 



NEW YORK CITY 

A rocky island, pierced by the foundations 
Of mighty buildings, welcoming all nations 
Within their shadows; where the old house-rows 
Are teeming with humanity. Who knows 
What magnet draws these millions of the poor 
To this small point of land ! What golden lure 
Has brought them over stormy, tossing seas 
To struggle in wealth's shadows ! Not for these 
Wealth's sunny gifts. Those man-built points of 

stone 
Tall, many- windowed, ribbed with steel, enthrone 
The City's might, which gathers at her feet 
The squadrons of the world's great merchant- 
fleet. 
No harbor on a sunny summer day 
Is so replete with life, along the way 
That leads in from the ocean past "The Hook;" 
And home-bound hearts beat faster as they look 
On schooner, yacht, and weighted pleasure-boat, 
On crafts returning from strange lands, remote. 
And noisy tugs that know no other port 
Than this, watched over by its green-hilled fort. 
And though this great town northward ever grows. 
The narrow headland where her life-blood flows 
Shall boast a mightier city, whose tall towers. 
Sky-scraping, will stand close as summer flowers 
Along a meadow's edge; beside the bay 
That brings the wide world's commerce 'neath 
her sway. 



55 



A VISION OF AMERICA 

Invocation 

Tell me a tale of the far-away, 

Wonderful land by the sea; 
Sing me the songs of a past day, 

Clothed m new fancies for me, 
Tired of ancient romances; 

Seek unwrit stories, and tell 
The lore of each stream that enhances 

Its background of valley and dell ! 
Lead me to heights undiscovered; 

Clasp me and carry me far, 
Where eagles o'er eyries have hovered. 

Where no dwelhng the wildness can mar ! 
Bear me away to the mountains, 

Wing me aloft to the skies. 
Bring me to cold-flowing fountains, 

Snow-peaks so fair to my eyes; 
Then to the fathomless ocean, 

Where headland on headland looks down. 
All lost in the unceasing motion 

Of waves in their gladness or frown ! 
Sail to the islands of beauty. 

Row me about their still shores; 
Search for the ocean's fair booty, 

Resting, becalmed, on our oars ! 



Come, let us float down the river. 
Past the green hills to the sea, 

Which the great heart of the Giver 
Fashioned for you and for me ! 



56 



PART I 

The Yosemite Valley 

I slept. Whence comes this sweet vision 

of mountains, and mountains untold; 
On the rich sky, in clear-cut precision, 

Tall pines 'gainst a sunset of gold; 
While deep in the valley, and nearer, 

The fields, softly waving and green. 
Reflecting still fairer and clearer 

The passing day's glorious sheen? 
The road winds on steeply, descending 

'Mid thickets of low chestnut, wild. 
Its creamy plumes lovingly blending 

With rosy wild peach; and that child 
Of the rocks, manzanita, that fast throws 

O'er its branches the waxen-like blooms, 
From a heart that with deep crimson tint glows. 

On, on, with the chestnut's perfumes. 
Where, robed in its pure, lovely splendor 

Is found the white lily that grows 
(Mariposa, its name, frail and tender,) 

Near the lingering breath of the snows. 
"Ahwahnee," — deep valley, — the soft name 

In musical cadence arises, 
For its gentle airs known to far-off fame 

'Mong the Indian tribes. Here surprises 
Far sweeter are opened; deep blue, 

As sunlight to twilight is fading, 
Stretch masses of lupine to strew 

The valley, far on to the shading 
Of hills, with an azure, soft, subtle; 

In the dimness those fair stretches rise 
Woven closely in wild Nature's shuttle. 

Then darkness steals over the skies, 
57 



"Ahwahnee, Ahwahnee," repeating 

*Mid the stillness, the silence; until 
With the sullen and black hom-s fleeting, 

Hurried onward past woodland and hill, 
To me new words are plaintively sounding; 

My guide wears an Indian form; 
"Wawona!" he cries, deep resoimding 

Through the trees, like a cry of alarm. 
"Wawona," — big tree, — is before me; 

From the earth sweetest odors arise, 
The strong, healing breath of the pine tree, 

Whose head tosses where the wind sighs. 
On the needle-strewn ground, the road half-hid. 

In a forest that seems deep-enchanted. 
Is winding, the lofty tree trunks 'mid, 

By gigantic, unearthly hands planted; 
"Wawona," the greatest in splendor 

'Mid his brothers, all mingled with pines, 
That vie in their height, though more slender. 

With the redwood's rich, shadowy lines. 
What a wonderful girth ! and how thick, soft. 

Is the red bark, his rough, shaggy coat, 
That binds the great trunk from broad base aloft 

To regions above us, remote, 
Where a few scattered branches the brows crown 

Of this monarch, whose reign has extended 
Through ages whose rulers' faint, dim renown 

Time in infinite silence has blended! 
Still thou rearest thy head, lofty giant! 

And on through the dark wood they stride. 
Thy companions in high pride, defiant 

Of the pine trees that climb at their side. 
Here greater than they are now laid low, 

Thy sires and grandsires, their girth 
Once rose where no more the loud winds blow 

Through their branches, that mingle with earth. 
58 



Lofty trunks, e'en majestic when lying 

In wondrous length stretched here at rest; 
Slow centuries each has been dying 

On Nature's deep-pitying breast. 
Mourn not for the gems of the mountain, 

Secure from the tempest's wild storm; 
Gone, gone to Ufe's e'er living fountain, 

They will come back in loftier form ! 
Why should they be lost when they moulder 

To join that rich earth whence they came; 
When their trunks lie shoulder to shoulder, 

Deep-mingled, and lacking a name? 
They are blent in the life-giving power 

Of the earth, from which countless growths 
spring; 
And, with the next wakening shower. 

It may be a blossom will wing 
Its way through the deep, fertile earth-mould, 

It may be a tiny moss-tree; 
But each in its every green leaf -fold 

Will avow that death cannot be; 
Whether hung from the loftiest tree-top 

Or in lowliest places it live, 
It cannot of joy hold one more drop, 

Be it high as the heavens; nor can give 
A message more plain than the lowly, 

Sweet whisperings of Nature and life. 
Which, though they may come to us slowly, 

Will free all our hearts from deep strife. 
This world for our pleasure is given. 

Think more on its beauty and grace, 
Of centuries that life has striven 

To beautify nature's fair face ! 
Forget not the life all about you. 

The changes, the seasons, the sky, 
The growth that each day brings about, new 
59 



And gladdening to the trained eye ! 
We herd in the city's dark alleys, 

We ne'er know a glorious sunrise, 
We feel not the charm of the valleys; 

Naught but houses about us arise, 
High houses on houses. We bury 

Ourselves in the works we have made; — 
Death in life, without one thought to vary 

The day from its sunlight to shade. 
Here, on the huge trunk of a great tree. 

My thoughts are revolving around. 
Until the dim guide seems to lead me 

Away from the sweet-scented ground. 
Over hills, above wild streams he hastens, 

The road a dim cleft in the rock; 
The brook's roar, the far distance chastens. 

Where it meets with the precipice' shock. 
Half drowsy from shades of the great trees, 

I start, wonder, gaze down afar, 
Where the mist, softly raised by a light bree25e, 

A valley reveals; naught to mar 
The pure silence, exquisite, serene; 

A great picture it seems, glorified. 
Is it real.'^ And the wealth of the scene 

Sweeps o'er me in incoming tide. 
"Yosemite!" cries my dark guide, "Look!" 

With his finger he points far, far down 
Where Hes that long, wonderful, deep nook, 

Split through the great rocks like a frown. 
I raise my eyes, veiled in deep wonder. 

Bare, glorious, those lowering heights 
In distant, dim days cleft asunder. 

While down them, like showering fights, 
Slip pale sheets of water, that drifting 

Far out on the valley, uprise. 
Disclosing, with slow, silent shifting 
60 



The green vale, that like a surprise 
Of fairyland spreads; and a mild stream, 

Gently wandering; while on each hand 
Spring walls of great stone with their cold gleam; 

Yet, below in its soft, yielding sand 
The river flows on as those great minds, 

That no passion nor sorrow can change; 
Ever peaceful, it swiftly glides past, winds 
'Neath the grim stare of each rocky range. 

Rhododendrons bloom on the sweet face 
Of this green, distant valley, and flowers 

Of every fair tint, that drink in grace 
From the incessant waterfall's showers. 

Grand and awful those towering steeples, 
Those crags, and those broad, rounded domes. 

That the genius and strength of all peoples 
Could never have reared for the homes 
Of the waterfalls. Laughing, they tumble 
O'er the high rocky shelf, and come down 

Sometimes with a halt and a stumble. 
Where the cliff's face is rough with a frown; 

But, leaping again, they sing onward 
To that stream in the deep vale below. 

From their birthplace in mountains far upward, 
'Mid the melting of ice and of snow. 

And here lies a quiet lake, dreaming. 
Reflecting the mountains around; 

While cataracts high up are steaming. 
That make a low, far-away sound. 

And murmur their Indian names soft, 

"Pohono," "Yowiye," "Piwaack," 
"Evil Wind Spirit," "Cataract of Diamonds," 
aloft, 

"The Meandering;" then, "Ti-sa-ack,"— 
That "Queen of the Valley," the half -dome. 

And peaks upon cold peaks that hail 
61 



As "Pompompasus," "Loya," the high home 

Of the Sentinel, Chief of the Vale. 
Far over the valley those cliffs soar 

'Round "Tutockanula;" 'mid all 
The bewildering Indian song-lore 

That blends with the voice of each fall. 
Past lofty "Clouds' Rest" I am driftmg; 

O'er the whole scene its sno^fvy head stands, 
And now as the white mist Ues shifting, 

Mysterious, invisible hands 
Seem to draw a veil o'er the vision. 

Seem to hide the dream from my sight; 
Blending all in a dim indecision — 

I am lost in the shadows of night; 
While the soft music, sweet, of a white fall, 

With the wind's gentle breath intertwined, 
Is all that I hear; a weird, low call 

That grows fainter and fainter behind. 



62 



PABT II 

Santa Barbara 

Santa Barbara, the blest, 
On your shore He peace and rest. 
Rocky headlands sloping down 
To the ancient Spanish town, 
Guarded o'er by mission towers, 
Wrapped in sunshine, palms, and flowers; 
Where the "fathers" once sought rest, 
Santa Barbara, the blest. 

O, would that I, like thee, had spanned 
The compass broad of every land. 
Dim guide ! Lead on to other cHmes, 
And lull me with their magic rhymes. 
Where distant, blue waves sink and swell, 
I hear a faint Cathedral bell; 
Deep-purple, beauteous mountains stride 
Beside the ever-murmm-ing tide; 
While, far across the waves' clear shimmer. 
The sunset's laughing fancies ghmmer. 
Repeated from the clouds on high 
That tinge the golden wall of sky. 
The glowing, sparkling rays are bent 
Upon this glorious continent, 
Before Pacific's \^/idening sea 
Can seize and drown the phantasy, 
The mingling lights, the thousand shades, 
That soften as the brightness fades, 
The last, clear amber, faint and pale. 
That hovers 'round a silent sail. 
And now I turn with half a sigh, 
Where on the beach bright mosses lie, 
The sea's wild tracery, all combined 



With shells and sand, that may have lined 
The mystic halls of a mermaid queen; 
Festooned in clinging sea-grass green, 
With a thousand star-fish closely paved, 
And a great shell-bower — when waters raved 
A couch for the nymph; her long, wet hair 
Than these waving mosses, was not more fair. 
On the yellow beach I sit to free 
My thoughts of all but the twihght sea; 
The soft, sweet lapping of tiny waves. 
And the mighty splashing from rocky caves 
Beyond the sand. "Farewell! Farewell!" 
Resoimds tlie hea\^^ vesper bell. 
''Farewell to the world!'' the old monks sang, 
When over this untrod land there rang 
The first, faint summons to Christian prayer; 
Across those mountains, high and bare. 
Came stern-faced men to live and die. 
On lonely trails and mesas dry. 
Among the Indians, who knelt 
Beside them, and the letters spelt 
From worn old books, and learned the way 
To build up homes, to work and pray. 
Still swinging, ringing o'er the sea, 
The Spanish beUs their minstrelsy 
Peal forth. Upon those tall, gray towers, 
Above the garden sweet with flowers, 
A peace and quiet seem to dwell — 
To cast o'er all the shore a spell 
Of ancient days. Along the wake 
Of the sunset, sailed Sir Francis Drake, 
And on, across that warm South sea, 
A rover bold, and brave, and free, 
The new day followed with hope, until 
He sighted again each well-known hill 
On the shores of Devon. He never dreamed, 
64 



When this distant land o'er his mast-head gleamed, 

That English voices would sound along 

The beach, where only a strange wave's song 

Brought odd, queer fancies to English ears, 

Of cannibals, wild men, countless fears. 

That old tars' stories the young hearts filled 

With dim forebodings. Here were tilled 

Broad lands, by many a dark senor, 

Who came from Mexico City far, 

With gay senoras, as bright and fair 

As the pomegranate blossoms that decked their 

hair. 
I wonder how many dim romances 
Have escaped an author's searching fancies! 
How many stories unwritten lie, 
Marked only by changing sea and sky ! 
How many hearts have throbbed and broken, 
Of which these sands may be a token ! 
How many lands that billow has seen. 
How many mountains snow-capped or green ! 
How many have dreamed beside this wave ! 
The world is wide, and those who gave 
These shores a name came from afar; 
Nor sea, nor savage can form a bar 
To the dauntless spirit, the love of change 
That leads men over each rocky range. 
Not only for gold, but for sight and sound 
Away from the home-land's daily round. 

The North-Western Shore 

Along the Californian shore. 
Beside the breakers' foam and roar, 
I am led so swiftly, my feet scarce reach 
The golden stretches of shining beach; 

65 



On, on, where, far up the Pacific Coast, 
A stream that the proudest name can boast 
Of all our rivers, Columbia, flows. 
And its broad, rich flood on the sea bestows. 
The wave and snow-peak seem to meet 
And blend at ocean's rippling feet. 
High over all, in whiteness airy. 
Like fabled robe of queen or fairy. 
Mount Hood, majestic in its glory. 
As magic mount of ancient story. 
All pure and startling in its sheen 
Above the valley wide and green. 
In size and grandeur swells, as nearer 
The hoary sides rise up, and clearer 
The shining slopes are fast revealed. 
Where chasm and glacier He concealed. 
Deep-flowing river ! Glorious mount ! 
From thee an everlasting fount 
Of melting waters hurries down 
The palisades, that glare and frown 
Above the stream in naked height. 
Until a cascade's silvery light 
With waving veil, translucent, fair, 
Dispels the thought that cliffs are bare. 
Cool ferns and mosses cluster high 
Upon the rocks ; deep shadows lie 
Along the river's sparkling edge. 
From wild tree-growths, a natural hedge; 
Upon the wave a flash of gold — 
The salmon caught in many a fold 
Of broad, strong nets. Those first brave men 
Who floated down Columbia, when 
The broad lands from the central stream 
Were scarcely knoTvn, shrank from the gleam 
Of these cold walls of stone; here came 
Fremont, and in their country's name 
66 



Bold hearts and willing hands; until, 
Upon a green and sloping hill, 
Now Portland's heights, a city grew. 
Prosperity and freedom knew. 
Upon the far northwestern shore, 
Where lies our last state, snow-peaks soar, 
And like a silvery crescent round 
The white-capped waves of Puget Sound, 
Its restless waters ever guard, 
And hold the land in watch and ward. 
Across the Sound we float, below 
The Olympian mountains; purely glow 
Their glittering sides above the sea, 
And worthy seem of history ; 
But wild, unsung, these glorious heights. 
And half -forgot their airy flights; 
Still wave on wave with dash and roar 
Has ever hailed this fertile shore. 
Perhaps 'tis better so than when 
Their thoughts will blend with thoughts of men; 
That day is coming; neither wild 
Nor savage is this distant child. 
Our farthest state; the mountains only 
Withdraw from man in silence lonely. 
To none their pure, free hearts confide. 
Sought only by the rising tide. 
The ships sail out; the ships come in; 
Their peaks are seen through pale clouds thin, 
Like shadowy souls at close of day, 
Or Peris in the morning's ray; 
Each point an upward springing crest, 
To mark the boundaries of the West, 
Beside the waves, ferns, mosses, grow, 
And lupine's fragrant wreaths, that throw 
O'er all the hills their meshes sweet. 
To tangle fast the wanderer's feet; 
67 



As blue as summer heavens they blow, 
Or shade to white of purest snow; 
Life, light, growth, beauty, everywhere. 
The wild, free earth without a care. 

Yellowstone Park 

We turn, and to an inland park, 

A strange and murmuring place, where: — Hark! 

I hear the mighty rush and roar 

Of geysers that in volumes pour 

Their boihng floods, and toss them high, 

To fall and sparkle 'gainst the sky. 

We listen at a round hole's edge. 

Upon a white field, where each ledge 

Has many openings, built around 

With snowy minerals. Not a sound 

Now mars the stillness; yet beneath 

Are Nature's furnaces. A wreath 

Of steam ascends from heated pools. 

And slowly down the valley cools, 

As on it floats upon a stream 

From sources where no glaciers gleam. 

A rush, a roar beneath our feet! 

From out the hole there springs a sheet 

Of water, heated by the fires 

That form the earth's e'erlasting pyres; 

So beautiful this column tall, 

High-rismg, that, when hot drops fall. 

We scarce can think of heat and rage 

Within the earth's enshrouding cage. 

High, high it mounts, then weaker grown. 

Subsides with distant, rumbling moan; 

While far across the valley's space 

Some other fomit has taken its place. 

Sometimes no soimd the silence breaks 



For long half -hours; each pine tree shakes 
Its stately head upon the hills; 
The stillness stream and valley fills 
With solemn majesty; and when 
The sun sinks low, far up the glen, 
Like myriad watch-fires' smoke, arise 
The warm mists; like a hundred sighs 
From some deep, land-locked spirits held 
In bondage, 'till their hopes high-swelled, 
And bubbling 'mong the boiling masses. 
Escaping through the rock's dim passes, 
Etherealized, at last return 
To heaven, for which all spirits yearn. 
Faint, faint, against the fading blue. 
The mists are slowly fading too; 
Gone, gone, their heat and struggles o'er. 
To float and soar, forevermore! 
The canon of the Yellowstone — 
A rainbow on a chasm thrown — 
Overlooking at one end a fall. 
With many an echoing cry and call, 
In one grand leap the bright rocks clearing, 
Until, the canon's far depths nearing, 
It shrinks, subdued by sight and scene, 
And hurries on, deep, cool, and green. 
The rainbow peaks are shimmering, 
The falling waters glimmering, 
The foam is rising fast, and breaking. 
The watery column shaking, shaking; 
It slips along above the fall. 
Then meeting that high, rocky wall. 
With sudden plunge is tossed and rent, 
Its close-bound strength is dashed and spent 
Upon the stones below. The roaring. 
Wild, watery music, boldly soaring. 
Half lulls, half tires the listening sense, 
69 



With full, unvarying sound intense. 
That same wave ne'er will leap amain, 
Yet the hills will bring the same refrain 
In deep-mouthed echo, and the stream 
Roll on with ever- varying gleam. 
What volumes must the far lake yield, 
Such loud-toned organ-sounds to wield. 
Forever pouring o'er the verge 
A milHon waves that sink and surge ! 

How smooth and peaceful lies the lake! 

The sunset's glories hardly break 

In ripples on its glassy wave. 

That sleeps as in a rocky cave! 

The mountains these still shores have boimd; 

The days pass by without a sound. 

South, ever southward, we must turn; 
The guide leads on where hot suns burn 
Upon the mountains, rocky, bold. 
That hide the magic name of gold; 
Dry Colorado's peaks extend 
On, on, and into blueness blend. 
Their guardian spirit, Manitou, 
One day some waters idly drew 
From out a rock, and formed a fount 
Below Pike's peak — high, steep-sloped mount,- 
A bubbling, sparkling, laughing spring 
With health and beauty glimmering. 
" Yet all this grandem* tires the eye. 
Wild spirit! Now I sink and sigh 
For Southern climes, and quiet shades, 
Where daylight softly, swiftly fades." 
"No further can I go," he cries, 
"To mountain heights I turn my eyes; 
But wander on, and thou wilt find 
70 



A guide, perhaps, more gentle, kind.** 
I pause and wave a last farewell; 
He seems to fade as in a spell, 
And o'er the peak by sunset kissed. 
His form is blending with the mist. 



71 



PABT m 

Along the Gulf 

What hand's in mine? A Spanish guide 
Points o*er the Gulf's incoming tide. 
" This broad, fair land and sea were ours, 
A region bathed in sun and flowers ; 
From Rio Grande to the Eastern shore 
Old tales of Spain could I sing o'er. 
Was not your name, at first. New Spain, 
America? Of all the train 
Of early comers I could tell: 
De Soto's life and death, — ^no bell 
Resounded, but in silence, fear 
Of treacherous foes, with gathering tear, 
They sought for him a lasting rest. 
This Knight of Spain, in armor drest. 
Within the Mississippi's stream. 
And though no bright and silvery gleam 
E'er greeted Ponce de Leon's eyes 
Of that famed fount of youth, there lies 
The Southland, fair as on the day 
When first he saw the shore and bay 
Where old St. Augustine now stands. 
'Twas Easter, and with outstretched hands 
He cried, '*'Tis a flowery Easter; name 
The land that brings me youth and fame, 
Pascua Florida ! So old 
This fortress is, its walls enfold 
The histories of Nations. Stones 
May tell their tales ! No Spaniard owns 
The land; all gone our ancient glory, 
All vanished like a passing storys 
But 'mid each winding, flowery stream 
You still may see the flashing gleam 
72 



Of beauteous birds; tall cranes, pure white, 
And others, decked in plumage bright, 
Unnamed, except in Indian tongue. 
When, through the clustering moss that hung 
In misty garlands, Spaniards came 
To give to Florida a name.'' 

A. dreamland strange it seems to me, 
A sleeping, lapping inland sea — 
The St. John's River. On we sail ! 
Until the burning sun's rays fail. 
The boat's prow moves, and lightly kisses 
The purple lilies; hardly misses 
Their slender stems, and spreading leaves, — 
A carpet that the river weaves 
For insect-dance and wild bee's pleasure, 
Where all day long in airy measure. 
The river-life trips on. Behind 
These waving plumes, deep, black ways wind 
Among tall tree trunks; regions dark. 
Where fabled forms might lurk, and mark 
The fairy river's sunny life. 
And lure its votaries into strife 
And blackness. Alligators there 
Their rough backs hide from scenes so fair, 
And on the damp logs idly thrown, 
Commingle with the grayish tone, 
And dimness that encloses all 
Within a mossy, shrouding pall. 
The silvery stream flows hke a soul, 
Untouched and pure, that through a whole 
Dark world may glide, and never waver. 
Nor turn to shadows broad that quaver 
Upon its brim. — To say farewell 
Is hard, for witching is the spell 
That Southern climes fore'er possess, 
73 



A subtle, softening tenderness; 
Magnolia blooms and pine trees' scent 
In everlasting sweetness blent. 

The Carolinas 

The ocean ever murmurs on, 
And leads the wandering soul at dawn 
Far up its coasts, forever dashing 
Upon the rocks, or softly splashing 
Within warm, sunny coves, and urging 
The lingerer on where clouds are merging 
Upon the horizon. Low sand beaches, 
Interminable sunny reaches. 
And then a city's quiet streets 
On which the sun with ardor beats. 
Though few steal forth to view his face; 
For, hidden in the dainty lace 
Of waving vines, behind high walls, 
Where, cool and sweet, the sunlight falls, 
Those dark-eyed maids, the joy and pride 
Of South Carolina, ever hide. 
St. Michael's church is very old, 
St. Michael's tomb-stones green with mold 
And moss, St. Michael's lofty spire, 
A beacon to the ships — a fire 
To lead the mariners aright 
Within the port, when dark the night; 
Old red brick shops along the bay, 
And sail-boats loading, all the day. 
White, fleecy cotton. From each bale 
Its heads peer, eager to inhale 
The sea-breeze; and to many lands, 
Far distant from these sunny strands, 
The ships will bear them; 'till some day 
In Egypt dry, or hot Malay, 
74 



Their woven threads, by strangest fate, 
May clothe some dark-skinned potentate. 
Back from the coast Une we diverge, 
Where misty moimtains meet and merge 
On North CaroUna*s western edge; 
We rest upon a mossy ledge, 
While, from the heights, floats dreamily 
A softly singing melody. 

Fiery glows the Southern sunset, 
Black the distant range, outlined 
On the day's most beauteous story, 
By night's waving heights defined; 
Up and upward, sinking, rising, 
'Till Mount Pisgah's tree-decked throne 
Culminates the ebon background, 
Where the sun sets, wild and lone. 

Nearer, nearer, as the distant 
Peaks are darkened, in the light 
Round hills, autumn-decked, are shining, 
As some glorious jewel might; 
Red oak, spots of blazing crimson, 
Maple, gold and rich, among 
Browner leaves, or where a huge pine 
Cool green, near the light is flung. 

Swannanoa, winding, silent, 
In the shadow of the trees, 
Down where shallow stretches ripple 
'Round a black-skinned fisher's knees; 
Swannanoa, Swannanoa, 
Sliding, ghding through the hills, 
Underneath the horses treading 
How each hoof -beat splashes, trills 
At the deep and shady fording, 
75 



Close beside a farm house gray, 
Bare and leaning, chimney crumbling. 
Standing there as if to say, 
"Wind on, river, in your steep banks. 
Laugh on, I must leave you soon. 
For your life is always morning. 
Mine has lingered long past noon." 

" Mine is fading, as the boarding 
Of my shaking walls and roof, 
Man will soon with caution leave me. 
Nature will not stand aloof; 
So, as long as my head rises 
O'er your moving, singing way, 
Will you greet me at the dawning 
Of each long and dreamy day?*' 

"Greet you!" trilled the singing river, 
" 'Tis my place in hfe to greet 
Every friend and every stranger 
On my way I chance to meet; 
For the earth's deep beauties ever 
Mirrored are within my eyes, 
Grace and joyousness of Nature 
That in my heart never dies. 

Soft the winds that tell of mountains. 

Sweet to me leaves floating by. 

And the field flowers looking downward 

At my image of the sky. 

Every singer's song is tender. 

Sinking deep into my ear, 

I shall greet thee then as ever. 

True is Nature; do not fear!" 



76 



Virginia 

The song grows fainter, sweet and light, 
As, fleeing in the darkening night, 
A dim form leads across the state. 
Until that shore is reached where fate 
The first of England's children led. 
Since then three centuries have sped 
And still that far-famed virgin queen, 
In marble effigy serene. 
Sleeps in the Minster of the West, 
Where every form and figure blest 
Has stood unchanged since first went forth 
Her hardy seamen, West, South, North. 
'Twas named West-Minster, but the sea 
Drew bold hearts on where there might be 
A far West, fertile, green and young. 
What change, what growth, what fife has sprung 
From young Virginia's spreading lands. 
From mountain-base to glowing sands! 
What sons and daughters she has reared! 
What glorious victories she has cheered ! 
What fiery souls ! How many a tongue 
Defiance 'gainst the wrong has flung 
In Richmond's Capitol, where still 
A lofty silence seems to fill 
The old white walls to overflowing 
With memories, on the spot bestowing 
Historic greatness. There the "sage 
Of Monticello" turned a page 
In history. Down the James' broad stream, 
Where old brick villages still gleam 
Across its waters, Hampton, lying 
On Hampton Roads, in memories vying 
With Plymouth, sleeps; for John Smith here 
Once landed men who knew no fear: 
77 



An old, old town with moss-grown walls, 
'Mid sunshine warm that softly falls 
Upon the ancient church. Across 
The broad bay high waves rise and toss 
On Chesapeake's waters; nearer loom 
The guns that oft with heavy boom 
Wake Old Point's stilhiess : Fort Monroe, 
From out the waves you seem to grow 
Above the smooth beach — ramparts high 
And broad, where black-mouthed cannon lie; 
But deep within, as if afar 
From all this readiness for war, 
A smooth, green meadow spreads, as still 
As if each rampart were a hill 
Unpierced by chambers, moat, and walls. 
So quietly the deep shade falls 
From scattered live-oaks, gnarled and gray, 
That mark a cool and pleasant way 
Across the grounds; one here might live 
At peace with all mankind; forgive 
His enemies in such a place, 
Where sea and land claim equal grace; 
Where the shore line blends with pine woods green, 
And stately warships float, serene. 
Upon the wide, blue waters ; sails. 
White sails where the horizon fails. 
And two far capes fade in the sea 
With ever-changing mystery. 
Another river to the north 
Upon rough Chesapeake comes forth, 
Potomac, flowing past the hill 
Preserved to his great memory still, 
George Washington: — Mount Vernon's shades, 
Its deer park, gardens old, and glades 
Where tall, strong trunk and creeping vine 
Surround a simple, gabled shrine. 
78 



Two marble tombs within it bear 
The short, plain names of that great pair, 
Of George and Martha, simply wreathed. 
Here with his sword at peace and sheathed, 
The, "Father of his Country," spent 
Long hours on healthful pastime bent, 
Or riding o'er his broad domain 
Sought rest for tired limbs and brain. 
Upon a rising hillock shine 
The pillars white in upright line, 
The broad porch, deeply shaded, where 
The view across the stream is fair 
And restful; windows small and quaint. 
Rooms where an odor, sweet and faint, 
Steals, mingled with the days of old; 
And furniture of ancient mould: 
Old spinets, guiltless of a tune, 
Old tables, from rich, wild woods hewn; 
Cracked cups and dishes; pictures, — dames 
Who look forth from their darkened frames, 
In round, stiff caps and kerchiefs neat. 
And faces ever fresh and sweet; 
The narrow stairs ; the four-post bed 
Where Washington's last hours sped; 
His camp-chest; all the homely things 
Round which remembrance ever clings 
Are here. Among the hedge-rows high, 
Within the garden, walk and sigh 
For vanished forms that slowly paced 
Along these ways; all those who graced 
The budding country's court, — all gone 
Those flitting figures on the lawn; — 
The close-clipped box alone retains 
A memory of those by-gone strains, 
That laughter light that oft would stray 
Along the winding garden way. 
79 



Then no gold dome caught fast the fires 

That hght its walls as day expires 

O'er our fair, ruling city ; near 

A gracious, graceful, white half-sphere, 

The great dome of the Capitol, 

Girt round with statue, carving, wall 

Of whiteness pure, above the green 

Of trees through which the to^n is seen. 

From one calm spot beside the river 

What shaft is that which seems to quiver, 

And higher mount against the red 

That floods the west ere day has fled? 

Huge monument, well named for him 

Whose glory never will grow dim; 

The greatest obelisk e'er made, 

Beside which Egypt's high stones fade; 

A sun's ray cut in cold gray stone; 

Though near the city's noise, alone ; 

Ne'er mingling with the endless strife 

That springs from struggling, hurrying life ! 

So may our country stand amid 

The troubles and the snares, half-hid, 

That compass it about, and rise 

In conquering pureness, to the skies ! 

The Eastern Shore 

South-east from dreamy Baltimore 
The isolated Eastern shore 
Of Maryland toward Cape Charles leads. 
Tall pine trees, close as river reeds, 
Clothe all the narrow strip of land. 
Except where in the soft, white sand 
The sweet potato thrusts its root, 
And peach trees himg with ripening fruit, 
Deep-tinged and rich from summer's glow. 
80 



Against the coast the broad waves throw 

Their strength, with dash, and splash, and roar, 

The whole length of the Eastern shore. 

Far out each smooth-lipped, solemn wave 

Seems motionless, a deep green cave 

Beneath its surface; yet with slow 

And stately roll its waters flow 

Along the sands to break at last, 

Its foam like flashing jewels cast 

Against the blue sky. On the beach 

The murmuring wavelets strive to reach 

A higher point, with gliding feet 

Fast slipping backward to repeat 

Their struggle with the sand. Unrest 

Forever on the ocean's breast 

Will he; except in some deep bay 

Where tiny waves that lose their way 

Breathe gently to the sands, " Forgive 

Our brothers' boisterous ways, and hve 

In peace with us." Among the stones 

Great oysters thrive; the grey shell-cones, 

Their earthly habitation, strew 

The sandy beaches where they grew 

In shallow waters. Land of streams 

Half-salt from tides, half-stilled in dreams. 

The changing, strange tides ebb and flow 

Upon thy banks, Wicomico, 

Fair river of the Eastern shore; 

Where Chesapeake's salt winds softly blow 

To waft the lilies to and fro, 

And sing its beauty o'er and o'er. 

The woods of Maryland that wave 
Close down where clearest waters lave 
Some old bark, ruined, sunken, frail, 
81 



Their branches huge stretch forth to pave 
The pine woods, still and dark and grave, 
With needles healthful to inhale. 

From out the trees old houses peer, 
Their red walls strong as in the year 
When English schooners, loaded down, 
The fair bricks brought and landed here, 
When the new settlers built with fear 
Each small but hopeful town. 

In windings, twistings toward the bay, 
'Tis hard to trace thy devious way 

Ahead, as o'er the waves we float; 
They lap against the prow and say 
" Come back, come back to us some day, 

And we will guide your boat." 



82 



Part IV 

New England and the Borderland 

On, northward, do we speed, and knock 
Upon the round-topped Plymouth Rock, 
Wiere history bids us enter in 
A town as free from noise and din. 
As if the Pilgrims ne'er had sought 
This distant shore, and freedom bought 
At sore expense of rest and ease. 
But with no king nor court to please. 
Great elms spread o'er each quiet street, 
Almost unheard the passing feet. 
While on a hill, 'mong flowers and grass, 
One long may stray, and softly pass 
The graves of those who early came 
To rear New England's strength and fame. 
A giant figure rises o'er 
The town, it seems to mount and soar. 
Yet still to brood, and watch, and bend 
Its glance upon the sea, defend. 
And guard the place. 'Tis christened "Faith." 
Sometimes its grey form, like a wraith, 
Seems chiseled out of cloud and sea 
To shadow forth Eternity. 
But earlier still do Norsemen boast 
A landing on the rugged coast; 
In long, dark boats, deep, many-oared. 
With bird-like beaks, they dimly soared 
From out the fogs of Time, to place 
Another name upon the face 
Of our new country, Vineland; naught 
More fleeting passed. " But we have sought 
Full long, my guide, (his shadowy form 
Was Indian-like again), the storm 
83 



And tranquil beauty of this land. 
"What more hast thou at thy command?' 
"Behold!*' he cries, "the greatest, last: — 
Niagara!" What has e'er surpassed 
This sheet of waters tumbling down 
In volumes mighty; sounds that drown 
The voice, and sights that awe the mind ! 
A spirit seems to clasp and bind 
The seething waters in a curve 
Of whiteness; now and then they swerve. 
And rise and dash against the rocks, 
In awinl, deep-resounding shocks; 
But on, the mass, unending, pours, 
From Canada's to New York's shores; 
A cloth of silver, clasped and bound 
In one great harmony of sound; 
A moving light, a gliding glory. 
Dashed into foam, all spent and hoary, 
Below where mists in dimness rise 
To hide the end from mortal eyes. 
Then on, and on, it foams and dashes, 
In whirlpools, rapids, frets and splashes, 
Until broad Lake Ontario 
Absorbs its swift, perpetual flow. 
St. Lawrence, from our clear, green lakes 
A thirst unceasing daily slakes. 
In radiance blending song and sigh. 
The Frenchman's tale, the Indian's cry. 
The early "fathers' " toil and prayers, 
The early settlers' fears and cares. 
Beyond its farthest source they went; 
At last, worn-out, their strength all spent, 
The Mississippi's glorious stream 
Beguiled them with its flash and gleam. 



84 



Part V 

The Central Fiver 

The central river, binding all 
The East and West, where forests tall, 
Rich wheat and cornfields stretch to make 
A fruitful land. Its broad waves take 
The Northern waters; from the West 
It welcomes in a worthy guest. 
The swift Missouri, browTied and worn 
By sunny deserts dry and shorn 
Of trees, but rising in those mountains 
Where burst wild Nature's burning fountains, 
The geysers of the Yellowstone; 
And in its restless rush and moan. 
It cherishes a deep thought still 
Of those hot streams ; strange sounds that fill 
The mind with awe, and contemplation 
Of this far-spreading, wondrous nation. 
We have the mountains, high and cold, 
The cataracts and steep cliffs bold; 
Two oceans in their varying tide 
Watch o'er the country, rich and wide; 
Broad rivers, lakes as great as seas 
That stretch along our boundaries; 
And hearts that claim this as their land, 
Though hurrying winds, and ships, well-manned, 
From many countries brought their sires. 
Combined are all the smoldering fires; 
The chivalry of one land blent 
Deep with another's sweet content; 
The glow of Southlands, and the pale 
Cold light of Northlands; ne'er can fail 
A people with such mingled feeling. 
Such light from many lands revealing 
85 



A growing power; and rising ever 

Upon each new and pure endeavor 

That leads men on to truth and light. 

Takes all that's good, and leaves the night 

Of ages past. Is this a dream? 

I float upon the broadening stream 

And in the coming daylight see 

A nation grown in Hberty; 

Far out of prejudice withdrawn, 

Illumined by the radiant dawn 

Of peaceful days. The pale light-gold, 

And spreading saffron soft unfold 

Across the wide, pure, waking sky; 

A clear blue flashes from on high; 

The topmost trees are touched with light; 

While upward, in their airy flight, 

The night-mists roll, to bear away 

The guide who traced my wandering way. 



86 



THE JUNGFRAU 

(From Interlaken) 

Jungfrau, 
Spotless brow, 
Mantle white, 
Smoothest slope, 
Radiant with hope, 
Glorious sight. 

Peering out. 
Dispelling doubt. 
Awe-full at dawn, 
Dazzling fair 
*Mid earth and air. 
Outline clear-drawn. 

Mountains gray 
Guard the way, 
In the valley deep. 
Dark with trees, 
0*er which one sees 
The snowy steep. 

Down that green vale 
It rises pale, 
Bride of the Day, 
Soaring above. 
As perfect love. 
Beauteous alway. 



87 



An Alpine rose 
When sunset glows 
In deepening fight; 
An edelweiss 
Against the skies 
Of darkening night. 

Snowy heights burning, 
Deep-tinted turning, 
TwiUght here, sunlight there, 
Vision so bright, 
Wondrously white, 
Through the clear air. 



88 



SUNRISE OFF CONSTANTINOPLE 

Clear dawn is shimmering on the wave, 
Pale day is breaking o*er the sea 

Broad Marmora's isles with light to lave. 
Where fast the gray mists flee. 

The Asian headlands far off rise, 

And up above the foam 
Of Bosphorus, against the skies, 

Each shining, snowy dome. 

Each minaret-point of sparlding gold 

'Mid gardens green and fair, 
That all the wealth of tints enfold 

In shades deep, warm and rare. 

A stairway grand on either bank 
Of the winding Golden Horn — 

Palaces, mosques high, rank on rank. 
Jewels that might adorn 

A way to Allah's Orient throne; 

From emerald wave to turquoise crest 
Each step a shining, snowy stone. 

That no earthly feet have pressed; 

Set deep in lapis-lazuli blue, 

The pure sky tint of sparkhng beryl, 

'Mid alabaster's transparent hue. 

And the tear-drop clouds of misty pearl. 

O Constantinople, the shrine of the East, 
Set high o'er its curved Horn of Gold, 

All breathless we bow at this rich color-feast, 
Before us like magic unrolled! 
89 



A MEMORY OF THE "IONIA'* 

"The Plain of Troy!" the captain said. 

We stood beside him on the bridge, 
And saw where many a Greek had led 

His w^arriors brave. Far off a ridge 
Of momitains rose against the blue; 

Between the slopes and restless sea 
Green grasses sparsely scattered grew 

Upon the level, far as we 
Could gaze; a few trees, where a stream 

Woimd from the hillside to the shore — 
With head on the ship's rail, let us dream 

Of Greece and Troy in days of yore. 



90 



MILAN CATHEDRAL 

Interior 

Down from the windows there falls in a flood, 

The royal radiance of purple light 
On the pavement of marble, in mosaic wrought, 

Falls from a glorious height, 

Far up 'mong the pillars that rise to the roof. 

So beautiful, airy and grand. 
Where the saints and the martyrs that guard this 
church, 

In their countless niches stand. 

All in the darkness that middle aisle; 

But down from the pulpit high 
The gilded bronze throws a brighter light, 

With odor of incense floating by; 

And behind the glitter, behind the sheen, 

Three windows shining rise. 
That glow with a thousand figures burnt. 

Three windows of wondrous size. 

As I look up at the shining throng 

It larger seems to grow. 
And all in a mist of roseate light 

To rise up from below. 

To float away in the rafters high, 

One glowing stream of Ught, 
To leave the dim church choir behind — 

'Tis gone! Swift comes the night. 



91 



Exterior 

Forest of poplars turned to stone, 

Etched on a pale gold sunset sky; 
Far above them, pointed and lone, 

One statue of stone on its pedestal high; 
While from each slender poplar tree 

Ever turned to the Lombard Plain, 
Each figure gazes silently 

Through sunshine and through rain, 
Ever watching its spotless trust. 

Carved out of marble white. 
Standing against the golden sky 

All in the sunset Hght. 



92 



CAIRO STREETS 

Did you ever ride through Cairo streets 

On a donkey of queerest cHp? 
Past gay bazaars of rugs and shoes, 

The stately desert ship, 
With your httle steed's necklace jingling, 

His little legs shaved in hues, 
The donkey boy screaming and yelling 

At the long-robed Arab, who dines 
Before the door of his tiny shop. 
Or smokes his pipe in the way; 
At the women who stride with bending step, 

On their heads a jar or tray? 
He cries "Mushaus" and "Mina," 

He keeps an astonishing pace, 
And pokes his burro hard and fast 
As he joins in the long mad race. 
No matter how narrow and crowded the streets, 

No matter how sharp are the turns, 
We rush along in a wonderful way, 

For the youngest child soon learns 
How to live in the track, 
And not under the feet. 
His ears are sharp. 

His sandals are fleet. 
The clamor, the clatter, the hammer, the patter, 

'Tis the funniest thing in the world 
To mount a donkey, then shout "kuUo," 
And through Cairo streets be whirled. 



93 



THE ROSE AND THE SAND 

Farewell to Cairo. 

A rose bent over a heap of sand, 

In the deHcate beauty of yellowish pink, 

And wondered where, in what far-off land 

Were such hard smooth crystals; and could not 
think 

Why she found theni spread in those sunlit halls, 
By the side of her slender flower vase. 

She bent down low to the shining balls, 
And wafted a breath from her fair sweet face 

O'er the sand that lay on the table there 

In a smooth and yellow mound, 
That a traveler had sought with care, 

(The grains that he gathered around 

The base of the pyramids, lofty and great. 

On the edge of the desert plain, 
O'erlooking the valley of orange and date, — 

Where the flood for months had lain. 

On the fertile fields, — ^to the city beyond 
Where the rose gardens flourish and bloom.) 

The sand had seen a palm tree's frond, 
But ne'er had it felt the perfume 

That was wafted so gently down over it then ; 

'Twas the breath of the sweet and unknown, 
And it pondered and pondered, and wondered 
when 

Such a delicate flower was sown. 



94 



And the rose whispered low in the perfumed air, 

" I am the type of the Nile, 
Of the fertile Delta, the land so fair 

That stretches for many a mile." 

And the sand, shifting down in a gentle breeze, 
Answered, " I am the desert so wide 

That ever pursues as the valley flees 
And bounds it on every side." 

The rose and the sand I send to thee; 

May thy days be fair in the land. 
And think a little sometimes of me 

In this city of roses and sand. 



95 



THE SUN AND MOON IN EGYPT 

(Written on the road from the Pyramids to Cairo,) 

O golden moon that looks down on the Nile, 

The sandy desert hills in clearest light, 
The graceful palms that wave their slender fronds, 

The flooded fields all silent in the night ; 
You shine upon this broad and rippling sea 

That covers well the fertile land beneath, 
And isles of corn-fields just above the wave, 

Each stalk wrapped in its green and fluttering 
sheath. 

All things at rest in nature! Brightly o'er 

You gaze do^n on the pigmy people's haste, 
Who ride along upon their stately ships, 

On through the green trees to that yellow 
waste — 
The Desert of Sahara, rising up 

Above the fertile Delta of the Nile, 
Stretching afar to Western Afric' sands 

For many a long, and dry, and weary mile. 

Just where the fields so rich and desert meet. 

The oldest works of man look down on them, 
As if to show the end of blossoming. 

The dreary desert wastes that seem to hem 
Around about this greenest bit of life; 

They stand above with broken steps and rough. 
How did the old Kings raise those heavy stones? 

Where did they find a quarry large enough? 

Awe inspiring, towering up so high, 

Cold and unflinching, like the fates of old, 

Looking far off into the future land. 
Farther than all the ancient stories told; 
96 



But when the sun set in the distant West, 
We saw that promised land all glowing gold 

And brilhant red behind the desert sand; 
No more the pyramids looked stony cold, 

Only dark fingers, pointing clearly up, 

Engraved upon the glowing golden light, 
And happiness and hope and perfect peace 

Stole down upon us with the wondrous sight. 
All things were bright; even 'neath the level lake 

A golden column glowed with richest hue, 
Which the moon's shining ball had pointed out 

Far down where last year's harvest bloomed 
and grew. 

And this seemed but a promise of the next. 

The root from which the golden wheat will 
sprmg, 
A fairy gift that sailed down through the sky 

As lightly as the white gulls on the wing; 
'Twas in the palace of the man who looks 

All night upon the earth with smiling face. 
And when he sees a coimtry that he loves 

To shine upon, he sends down to the race 

Such bits of brightness, that make all things fair, — 

The golden wheat and corn, and hanging fruit, 
The dates, bananas, yellow roses' hue, 

The cotton's bloom, the slender bamboo flute. 
You look so calm, benign, protecting, kind, 

O beautiful, round, shining, golden ball. 
Where'er I see your face, on every shore. 

You send a welcome to the travelers all. 
That makes the place a home, the world a friend; 

A face that changes not with climes and sands; 
You always speak a language clear and plain. 

We part, but soon to meet, in other lands. 
97 



STRINGS OF AMETHYSTS 

The Grecian isles, the purple mounts, 

That lie upon the crystal sea, 
Are strings of amethysts she counts, 

Athene, tall, and fair, and free. 
Each jewel means a legend told. 

Each isle a gem upon the chain 
Of myths and fancies, strung on gold 

Of sunset clouds along the main. 



9S 



EGYPT 

The land of the rose and the jasmine. 
The land of the sand and the stone. 

The land of sweet-scented gardens, 
The land of the pyramids lone. 



THE OLD ICE WITCH 

Suggested by an old woman singing, with zither 
accompaniment, in the ice cavern of Grindelwald 
Glacier, and two children who sang outside. 

In a green ice cave, far, far away. 

An old witch lived for many a day 

In the "cold dark North;" and two children 

fair, 
With bright blue eyes, a beauteous pair. ' 

On harp strings, made of their golden hair. 

She played all day an echoing air, 

While they sang 'mong the rocks with voices 

sweet. 
As the httle snowbirds flew about their feet. 

The old witch sat in her cavern cold. 

Forever watching a pot of gold. 

Singing and playing an echoing air 

On the harp strings made of the children's hair. 

And the birds remembered the children's song; 
They carried the news for a distance long, 
To a city far down by a bright blue sea. 
And told the story, so strange, to me. 



100 



THE BEGINNING OF AUTUMN 

(A Memory of Geneva) 

I can never forget the picture 

Of a cluster of slender trees, 
Tiuned yellow and brown by the sunshine, — 

Some fallen leaves whirled by the breeze 

O'er the gray paving stones of a court and a 
road, 

At the top of a gentle hill, 
In the mellow shadows of a building old, — 

A spot so calm and still, 

That a nameless feeling of sorrow and joy, 

In the dry, leaf-scented air 
Made the whole world seem more sadly sweet, 

And strangely free from care. 

So we Ungered there in the sunshine, 

To watch the first leaves fall. 
Whirled about by an Autumn breeze, 

In the shade of an old stone wall. 



101 



JANUARY AND JUNE 

Suggested by the discovery that the January and 
June issues were missing in a package of 
old magazines. 

January and June are gone! 

Did they run away together, 
And join their ever wayward hands — 

Such different kinds of weather? 

Among the fair month-sisters 
They never were known to agree; 

So why should they have decided 
As friends and companions to flee? 

'Tis wonderful beyond measure, 

And if, in the coming year, 
June is a trifle wintry, 

A trifle chilling and drear, 

Or New Year a trifle sultry 

And warm in the midst of the day. 

You will know that they went together 
And together have lost their way. 



102 



THE RHONE 

(Above Lake Geneva) 

Down the broad valley 

The swift torrent rushes, 

Ice cold from the glaciers 

It foams on the rocks, 

In whirlpools and deep holes 

It gm-gles and gushes, 

The thick walls and stone-work 

It laughs at, and mocks. 

Far up 'mong the snow peaks 

It trickled in slow drops 

From hundreds of glaciers, 

To gather in streams. 

That fell down headlong 

From the steep cliffs and hill-tops, 

Slid o'er the smooth slopes, 

Or hid in the deep seams. 

On, on, to the blue lake 
It turns and it tumbles, 
To be lost on that surface, 
So still, broad, and calm, 
But over the stones 
How it roars, and it grumbles 
Till it reaches Lake Leman, 
A smooth, calming balm. 

Soon lost in the fair lake, 
It flows past that green shore 
Most pictured and sung of 
In tale and in song; 
(It knocked on the dungeon 
103 



And many a hole wore 

In the wall that confined there 

Brave Bonnivard long.) 

For a time it flows calmly 
Past Vevey and Lausanne, 
The green banks of Schweiz, 
The steep hills of Savoy; 
But soon with its temper 
The swift-rushing, rough Rhone, 
Shoots out of the lake 
With a wild shout of joy. 



104 



SUNRISE ON PILATUS-EULM, LAKE 
LUCERNE 

On Pilate's crest we stand, and watch 
The first faint streaks of rosy Hght, 

Behind the hills and mountains green, 
That bring them clear-cut to our sight. 

The pink steals slowly 'round the sky, 
And through the air, superb and grand, 

Rise in their everlasting snow, 
The glories of the Oberland. 

Peaks upon peaks, and over all 
A chain of moxmtains purely white 

Against that roseate, wondrous shade; 
Lonely, inspirmg, awful sight! 

And beautiful, ethereal. 

Like pyramids of snow they stand, 
The Jungfrau, Monch and Wetterhorn, 

The highest in the Oberland. 

We watch the light steal down the slopes; 

It turns the bluish shade to white, 
While black the farther sides become; 

And looking onward to the right. 

The bluish shade still lingers there, 
On peaks that still in twilight stand, 

That know not yet the glorious gleam 
Of daybreak tinting all the land. 

And in the East the red ball climbs 
0*er Rigi*s green and wooded crest, 

To drive the silver moon away, 

And mom' star to the distant West. 
105 



Next from the valleys deep arise 
The mists, mysterious, dim and gray, 

That creep up to the mountains high 
As if to hide their peaks away 

From those who dare to gaze upon 
Such beauty, silent, awful, grand; 

To linger at that lofty shrine: 
The snow peaks of the Oberland. 



106 



RECOLLECTION 

Yes, sweetest happiness is recollection! 
For in it every joy is oft repeated, 
And all the sorrows melt into a cloud, 
To hasten o'er the dim horizon line. 
All that is fair, each word, each thought 
Remains, to cheer us on to newest enterprise. 
The sights are best that were seen yesterday. 
Touched by the rosy lips of Memory. 
Come then and tell me of the joyful Past, 
And after all is well thought-on, well-sung, 
Let's seek again new treasures for our minds 
To hold, and weave into an endless chain 
Of happiness, that fair and sweet may grow 
With blooming flowers, till all the mind and soul 
Are deep embalmed in earth's rich harmonies. 



107 



ISLE OF CAPRI— BAY OF NAPLES 

The snowy gull over the blue sea ghdes 
In the shadow of Capri's rocky sides, 
Where the water is deepest of indigo blues ; 
And far, farther down 'mong the clearest of hues 
And shades of the color, all gleaming and white, 
The shells of the ocean-bed shine in the hght. 

Through a low rocky arch the old boatman rowed 

in 
To a cavern, far bluer and brighter within; 
A sheen and a shimmer on the clear water shone, 
A ghtter and ghmmer, reflected alone 
Thro* the small rounded entrance that leads to 

the world. 
By which the clear water from turquoise is pearled 

In the deep fairy cavern low murmurings rang; 
Come, list to the song that the cave fairies sang : 

Up from the ocean bed. 

Light as the foam 

Rose a bright sea nymph one day, 

Thinking, 'tis said, 

Ever to roam 

'Roimd the steep islands of fair Naples' 
bay. 

Into this grotto blue 
'Neath the clear ocean's wave, 
GUded the sea nymph so bright; 
Never in water's hue 
Had she seen such a cave. 
Resting within^from her long weary 
flight. 



108 



Charmed by our lovely home, 
Under its spell, 

She joins her song with us now. 
Begging you not to roam 
More in the field or dell; 
Come, for a day, 'neath the green nioun- 
tain's brow! 

Joy is eternal here. 

All our world's bright. 

Listen! O list to our song! 

Never know we a fear, 

Playing in bluest light. 

Come, Uve with us, live with us long ! 

Ah ! the sea fairies' song was enticing and clear, 
And we longed to float ever, and ever to hear 
The low murmur of waves and the tales that they 

told; 
But the old boatman's heart was so stony and 

cold 
That he rowed us away, until all we could see 
Was a Kttle dark hole, where the fairies are|free. 



109 



VENETIAN FANCIES 

(Suggested by a tiny silver gondola.) 

Here is a tiny silver boat 

That has touched the Venetian shore — 
Those anchored isles that gently float 

Without a sail or oar. 

How strangely with a shifting motion 

The gondolas s\viftly ghde 
O'er the drifting streets of the dark blue ocean. 

Scarce moved by the gentle tide! 

How softly glows the white moonshine 

On the city's marble face ! 
A pale and shimmering, sparkling line 

Along the waves I trace; 

It comes to meet the slender boat 

Across the rippling water. 
What joy to be fore'er afloat! 

What joy to pause, to loiter 

Beneath some stately rounded dome. 
Dark 'gainst the bright moonhght; 

Never, nevermore to roam. 
Never to leave this night ! 

A voice fills all the moonlit space, 

A man's voice true and clear. 
With liquid tones and careless grace — 

The voice of a gondoher. 



110 



The music boat is moving past. 

Come, let us follow, fly! 
Our boats are motionless and cast 

Black figures on the sky — 

Quaint, graceful prow of shining steel, 

And hull of gloomy black, 
A pointed, carved and slender keel; 

The gondolier, with back 

Bent sHghtly on the single oar — 

When, at a short command. 
The barks shoot forth and gently soar, 

Moved by each strong, lithe hand. 

Again are the boatmen in motion 
With a swinging, wonderful bend. 

Again do we gHde o'er the ocean. 
The songs, far distant, lend 

Enchantment, soft, mysterious, sweet. 

Look up at the palace walls! 
Look up at the carvings that ever meet 

In graceful arches, where falls 

The moonshine, making them purely white! 

Was ever a dream more fair? 
Let us follow the shimmering road of light, 

Follow, follow, and ne'er 

Float away from this fairy scene 
Where sights are worldly never! 

The airy gondolas stand between 
The sea and the sky forever. 



Ill 



The music boat is floating past. 

Pursue, pursue, my boat! 
May the witching moonhght last, 

May we ever gently float 

Down this street, the most enchanting. 

Paved by the silvered moon; 
The shadows grow deeply slanting, 

We must leave the broad lagoon ; 

And the Palaces wrought by fairy hands, 
Those Palaces golden and white, — 

Among the nights in many lands 
The fairest is your night ! 



11« 



AN ANSWER 

You think a poet ne'er should cease 
The murmur of an endless song, 

His every thought for you release, 
If it be light or long. 

Can streams forever laugh among 
The stones and waving grass? 

Sometimes their song cannot be sung 
To those who, listening, pass; 

Sometimes the winter freezes light 
Their heart-strings' eager beat; 

Sometimes the sun is far too bright, 
Too strong the summer's heat. 

And oft comes steaUng into life 

Some change by harsh winds brought, 

There sometimes comes an inward strife 
To dull and crush the thought, 

To bear away the melody. 

Or turn an image cold, 
And that wild careless fantasy 

Is never told. 



lis 



UNDER THE APPLE TREES 

Sweet and fresh is the southern breeze 
Under the low-hung apple trees; 
Green is the grass 
For those who pass, 
Under the apple trees. 

Gnarled and brown are the branches old, 
But robes of leaves their trunks enfold; 
All is so fair, 
Lingering there. 
Under the apple trees. 

Shadows and lights that dance and play 
With the golden-rod beside the way; 
Meadow all bright, 
Then the fading light. 
Under the apple trees. 

OutHnes uncertain, and gray and dim, 
No one can tell which is leaf or limb; 
Witching times these 
In the southern breeze, 
Under the apple trees. 



114 



THE PEARL AND THE SHELL 

Out of the sky rose a sea-shell, 
Deep pink at its narrow base, 

On distant, faint wings paling 
To films of snowy lace. 

A pearl in its heart lay glowing; 

That shone all silvery white 
In the depths of its delicate tinting, 

A disk of purest light. 

Then all but the jewel vanished, 
Dissolving, dispersing soon; 

For the shell was a cloud at sunset. 
The pearl is the shining moon. 



115 



THE SMALL HORSE-CHESTNUT TREE 

'Tis best that they should cut you down, 

A small horse-chestnut 'mong the forest trees. 
Here is the woodman's mark — one deep", rough 
frown 

That mars smooth bark. He is the one that 
frees 
Each Hfe of oak, or elm, or maple trunk. 

What life is all around! 
And here the deep-brown leaves are torn and 
shrunk. 

From which, without a sound, 
The life has fled; that lie upon the earth. 

To rest in withered heaps 
Beneath this tree, whose slender girth 

Will soon be circled. How the sunshine creeps 
Across the grass! iVnd this will soon grow o'er 

The spot on which the trunk shall fall; 
In floods about it will the sunshine pour, 

To warm and strengthen all. 

'Tis not alone that we should live and die 

In selfish personality; the way 
In which we add to this great world of life is why 

We come here; that some day, 
The leaves we scatter ere we are cut down 

Flying afar may take some thought or deed 
To hving heart; or smooth a wayward frown 

By some act, slow-grown, from deep-fallen seed. 
Then let the sunshine glow w^hen we are gone; 

Then let the freshest flowers bloom fairer still; 
Perhaps we added one bright spot — ^just one — • 

Upon the grass-grown fields of life's green hill. 



116 



WILD GRAPE BLOSSOMS 

Did you ever ride in June through a wood, 
When an odor made you wonder if it could 
Be the air that you were breathing, just the air. 
Heavy-scented with rich sweetness everywhere; 
Giving forth a gracious perfume, fresh and soft, 
Winging down from every leaf -roof up aloft, 
Where the wild grape loves to curl, and climb, 

and cling. 
Endless tendrils, creeping, 'round each branch to 

fling? 
Just an odor like some song the fairies know. 
Just the faintest breath that ever wind did blow, 
Just the whisper of a thought too fair to be. 
Just the blending of the ripples on the sea; 
These, all these, like scattered pictures come and 

When the wild grapes strew their bounty high and 

low, 
Unseen blossoms breathing peacefulness and rest; 
Odors far too faint and subtle to suggest. 



11 



THE ICE QUEEN'S JEWELS 

Bejeweled, bedecked is the garden fair 

Which, at sunset, reared its bushes bare; 

For the ice queen came, and in darkness cased 

Each branch in a frozen coat, and laced 

A network of ice threads in and out, 

CircUng the fruit trees all about 

W^ith a diamond coat. How each small twig 

shines ! 
The fences stretch in sharp, shining Unes! 
Now as the day begins to dawn, 
And the garden shines dim in the pale light wan. 
She drops her necklace, a shower of pearls. 
That the north wind catches, and whirls and 

whirls, 
'Till the jewels lie scattered all over the grass. 
As night o'er the west hill seems to pass. 
It leaves the morn so stern and cold 
This pure ice wonder to behold. 



118 



TO A BABY PICTURE 

Little girl up in the picture frame, 

Is it true that I once was you, 
With curling black hair, and a baby name? 

Little girl, you never grew; 

But the tiny white dress, with embroidery 
bound, 
Is as fresh as on that day 
When they painted your cheeks, so rosy 
and round, 
Your eyes that they said were gray. 

Your good-luck coin hangs from its chain, 
Upon it a French king's head, — 

Unused, it long in a drawer has lain. 
But into good-luck has the baby led. 

Baby, baby, with laughing eyes. 
Do you think I was ever you? 

Open your lips in glad surprise 
And tell me it is true. 



119 



TO A ROSE 

Fairest of earthly possessions, 
Sweetest, most delicate one, 

Flower for tender confessions; 
Be you of gold, as the sun, 

Crimson as bright clouds at sunset, 
Pale as the dawn's coming light, 

Heavy, with cool morning dew wet, 
Touched by the breezes of night; 

Pure as the drift-snow of winter, 
Glowing as summer's bright sun. 

Sunshine, that wonderful tinter, 
Made you the fairest, sweet one. 



UO 



SPRING FLOWERS 

Smooth white petals around the hem, 

Within, a small red frill, 
Little green buttons to hold the stem; 

This is the gay jonquil. 



The daffodil hides in a yellow bell, 
But she waves her arms to the breeze; 

She has many secrets, deep, to tell 
Of the flowers whose coming she sees. 



Anemones, so delicate and fair, 

The flowers of the wind and gentle rain, 

You come with spring's first warm, inviting 
air. 
To sprinkle blossoms o'er the grass again. 



Deep blue bunches nestling down, 

Hiding each modest head 
Under the leaves, from April's frown, 

Violets bloom in a mossy bed. 



Shining gold in the soft green grass. 

The buttercups are here; 
They glitter and laugh with all who pass. 

They have lost a spring flower's fear. 

I thought the snow had come back today 

On the plum trees all abloom. 
Until from the breath of each pure white 
spray 

Stole a delicate, faint perfume. 



The grass is high beneath the trees 

That cast cool shadows so broad and dark, 
1^21 



The lilac blooms in a southern breeze 
Toss to and fro; a last bright spark 

Is lingering on the burning bush; 

The jonquils white, in long rows 
Beside the path, bend over and push 

Their neighbors, as the wind blows. 

The quince tree blossoms of pink I see, 
Fairer the apple with faint perfume; 

As the poet said, the soul of the tree 

Has come forth in its fair and delicate 
bloom. 



Great dogwood flowers of purest white. 
Apart from all wild blooms you seem — 

A cold, mysterious, Alpine height 
Above green hill and stream. 

As the train sped on 'mid woods and fields 

To the city noisy and great, 
Through the door a fragrance the crab tree 
yields 

Made us long to linger, to wait 
Beside the winding quiet stream, 

Where pink blooms fill the air 
With perfumes that the sweetest seem 

Among wild blossoms fair. 



The dark brown calycanthus. 

With its scent of strawberries fresh, 

Is like some quiet, gentle face 
That hides a golden mesh 

Of thoughts so rare and charming, 

A mind so pure and fair 

That you dreamt not of its wonder 
122 



'Till it crept in unaware; 

For when you have folded it closer 
Its breath waxes sweeter to last 

Long after the flower is faded, 
Its freshness a thought of the past; 

And often a perfume steals toward you 
When the blossom hides shyly away, 

As the deeds of good fairies on earth 
Hidden well from the curious day. 



Scarlet honeysuckle. 

Trumpet delicate and bright, 
Lined with golden pollen, 

Where the humming bird so light 
Poised, in mid-air, sipping 

Honey, hiding at the base, 
Flits round each slender blossom 

With a swift and airy grace. 



Waxlike, heavily-scented flowers 

Close to the old white fence. 
Breath of the drowsy summer hours. 

Stately Syringa; the warm days commence. 



As I wandered through the garden 

I met a cornflower gay; 
He stood erect and slender. 

While his loose hair blew this way 
And that, in the southern breezes 

That came from over the hill. 
Kissing the tiny rosebuds; 

The birds began to trill 
That summer was coming, was coming. 

That the cherries would soon be red. 
That the bees had commenced their humming 

By the sweetest blossoms led. 
123 



DAISIICS 

Wnviiii^ p;irrii p;niNH 

Ovrr llir liill. 
Soft wiiulH tininniiriii^ 

Nrvrr (jiiilf mHII; 

( inhlrii ryvi\ diiiHirH 
Wniriii^^ wliilr crowim, 

( inirrrnl iiiid diiiiily . 
I''nr fnHii I lir Iowiin. 

SmMrii, Mwrrl liiippiiiONH 
SIchIh </<♦!' my niiiul 

VVlini, ill llio wiiviii^ kiunn, 
DniNirN I (iiifl. 

Many nw<mI inrinorioN 
'ItoiiiMl llirii sinus rliii^, 

I'/vrr of <|iiv (Irciiiiis 
Softly lliry Hiiij(. 



1*24 



w<mrj)H woHK 



Wluil iM my woiKf' I <|i> not 1^»il; 

'Mm- ^rnil woiM'm workHliop im**«m' luiv«* Imowii, 
I^'roiii IroiiMi- lr«*r, from run*, limnoi), 

My lilV i;i nil my own. 
WIml hImiII I <|<) willi llic pnnonh ^ifl? 

I muMi wiili- il, rlnii iin<i I'liii, 
In 'I'nm'ti \\tu\: <|jiy l>ooK I nnir;! nplift, 

My lif*-. Ilnil it Mlinm<- not lli<i«^ 
< in-Ill minMM of I In* |'n,,| luul rnwnl limii, 

WonM I »lmr |,o wrih* it <lown, 
Willi Mot/',, iin<l Hi'rn\/i'\itvi, \i\\irn nu<\ j/iinj<«, 

To imM il h<'owI or frown 
To flint MpotlrhM l»ooh? I will try iin<l try, 

'I liiit MonM- <liiy I niny writ,** 
In fl)» |,ool'. of tlion^litn ImIou- I iln-, 

'I Imii my lilV will imM t^» tin- Iij/Iil 
Of till- itytn If n«»t , if it l>«- not, writ 

In tJint fiiit hool'., I will imM 
No ^oo<l t;o till' woiM, no In l|», not on*' l»it 

lo iimn':i fyooil Wlwit llfr mon* «ImJ ! 

' ''♦ " ' I' '}" f"i "•«• nil fH'«|i nnfl wliit/«i, 

'l«il'.« «iir« ' till mind munt Ik- < liim, 
'Mm- iH-ait Ix- triji- nnrl tin- « y<fi !,• I.nprlit, 

To |>r«'m-iv«- itM f/Ji-.t^nm^ ;ili«<i, 
Klixll word tlllit I rsliiipr miltil. I»«- iU,u. 

Kim II tlioiij/lil tinit | r-,lni|><* Iw K<hm1, 
KimIi ffHiidttlnp I mnl'.i- cinm**, 

If I nd«l lo I.Im- p/if/*' iiM I nliouM. 
In ytviity, i>«r<linn*«*, lo llir woiUJ 

O/M- tlioijp;lil, om« litwiinK lin<* 
li/>on l.lij.i lliip;, intUiiUui 

To 1.h<* yu'/^' of i.\n' romm|/ n. mikii, 
h'fti ilioM* wIk* ;',<«in not to ■« « 

TIm' f><:iuit.iful fill iiroimd 



In every day sights; to free 

One song of one sad sound; 
Onemind of one sad thought 

One day from pain deep-wrought 
One soul from dark despair 



126 



THE VOICE OF NATURE 

How clear upon the quiet evening air 

Fall sounds of Nature's children from above, 

On leafy boughs, or o'er the white fields fair. 
Where speak all hving things of Nature's love. 

The wild birds twitter in the green lace-work 
That holds all life withm its meshes soft; 

Here squirrels chatter, there the insects lurk; 
Then all is silent, 'till, from far aloft, 

There comes a concert, blending in a song 

From strong, untutored throats. 'Tis Nature's 
cry. 

More glad, more sad than all those that belong 
To greater songsters, though I know not why. 

For has a bird a thought — a soul? Ah, no! 

*Tis Nature singing in each little throat, 
And as we nearer to true Nature go 

More thrilling is the song, more true the note 

To move our hearts; to give to us the peace 
That steals down gently as the lengthening rays 

Stretch o'er the grass when noisy labors cease, 
And all the restfulness of summer days: 

The fields, the flowers, the trees that soft lights 
find, 

The waving branch, the slender quivering blade 
Of grass, imprint upon the influenced mind 

A glory that will never pale nor fade. 



127 



SKY AND SUNSHINE 

A break in the clouds, — 
The blue, blue sky, — 

And a wild North wind 
That whistles by! 

A quick glad joy 

In the sparkling light, 

In the blue above 
And the dark cloud's flight! 

A thought that has made 
One more bright space. 

That f utiu*e clouds 
Can never erase! 



If6 



FROST FLOWERS 

Tiny white frost flowers glinting, 
Late in spring, upon the grass 

Jack Frost left, in airy printing, 
As one night he chanced to pass. 

"Ah," he cried, " you say the garden 
Far more beauteous doth shine. 
Fray, just let me ask your pardon 
As I say more fair is mine. 

**For those blossoms on the tree boughs 

Droop at last, to fade and fall. 
Little time the earth allows 
To hide and bury all. 

**But my frost flowers in the simshine. 
With one flash of sparkling joy, 
I«ave no trace to make us pine 
For the earth and its alloy, 

"Leap into the air above them. 
Join that clear, ethereal sphere, 
Far from bournes that closely hem; 
Shed but one great tear 

*For the world's terrestrial beauties — 

Then the tear is lost in air; 
Free from earth's successive duties 

My flowers need no thought nor care." 



120 



ON SEEING A FLOCK OF WILD DUCKS 
FLY OVERHEAD 

A flash of blue and silver 

Against the azure sky, — 
A flock of swift-winged wild ducks 

Fly like an arrow by. 

Their heads together pointed, 
To the Eastward move the wings, 

Full extended to the breezes, 

Close, compact, the whole flock clings. 

Off into the misty blueness 
They are gone, a passing thought; 

But the flash of blue and silver 
In a memory is wrought. 



lio 



A DROWSY AFTERNOON 

What can the wind be saying, 

As whispering, slipping down, 
With cornstalks lightly playing, 

He glides through the sleepy town 
That the summer sun so drowsy made; 

He hears no answering sound, 
He creeps along, almost half-afraid 

Of the stillness all around; 
But his footsteps the insects have waked, 

His breath has shaken the leaves. 
And softly the lawn has been raked 

By his fingers . The bright sun grieves ; 
And withdraws the golden glory 

From lawn and garden green. 
But the wind sings on his story 

In shadow or sunhght sheen. 



181 



HEIDELBERG 

The broad low window all in light, 

The garden dim and dark, 
Some students, singing through the night, 

And echoing music from the park; 
The wooded hill beyond, a wall 

Of blackness, where one ray 
From lofty heights its light lets fall — 

A glittering star, astray. 

Morning! There is the castle old, 

That gray, majestic pile. 
Last night deep-hid in shadowy fold 

Of evening's mantle, all the while. 
Up by the winding, shady path 

Above the Neckar's stream; 
What charm this ancient woodland hath, 

A mediseval dream! 

" The moat is deep, the tower high, 

The walls are still upright, 
But enter, Ladye, pass not by. 

At the castle gate waits a faithful knight. 
Come through the great watch-tower. 

With coat-of-arms o'er the gate. 
Fit emblem of the feudal power 

In a mighty and olden state. 

This Gothic wing was Ruprechtsbau, 

In fourteen hundred called to rule 
The Roman Empire on the brow 

Of a Rhenish hill, the Konigstuhl. 
Now, crossing the level road again. 

Pause at this ancient well a time, 
Upheld by columns that Charlemagne 

Once placed in his palace at Ingelheim. 
13d 



Still glorious stand the inner walls, 

Which emperors' statues and saints' adorn; 
On their stony heads the sun's rays fall 

Unbidden; no beggar more forlorn." 
"Interminable seem these winding ways 

Sir Knight, half -ruined, and half -walled in, 
Faint traces of halls in better days, 

And many shadowy rooms therein." 

"Come to the balcony, stranger fair; 

In this turret rest, look down 
At the clustered houses below us, where 

Is passing the life of a modern town; 
While the octagon tower above us stands. 

Clasping young ivy, a century old;" 
"Sir Ejaight!" the ladye held up her hands, 

"Sir Knight! young ivy!" His brow grew 
cold. 

"Come back to the court," he grimly said. 

They passed through an archway low. 
And stood, where the knight had swiftly led. 

In the sun's last, fading glow, 
Before a lofty facade, where placed 

In niches, many and high, 
A line of statues the spaces graced. 

Of princes whose thrones in dust now lie. 

"My niche is there," the knight bent low, 

"Farewell, 'tis my only day 
In the century." Wan his face did grow, 

Cold his eyes; his hair was gray. 
"Farewell!" The ladye, trembling, turned; 

Then upward gazed from the courtyard 
lone — 
The sun's last, lingering brightness burned 

High, over a knightly form of stone. 
133 



ALEXANDRIA 

{Egypt) 

Beyond the sea there rises 

A stretch of yellow sand — 
One of those swift surprises. 

The first faint sight of land. 
No mountains towering upward, 

No bleak cliffs on the shore. 
But only a desert landward, 

And the delta's field-decked floor; 
Only a modern city 

Despoiled of her ancient fame, 
Once, seat of the brave and witty, 

Glorious was her name; 
Built in a sunny comer 

Where desert and delta meet, 
The wealth of the Nile to adorn her 

Was laid at her proud white feet; 
And scholars, great Ptolemy seeking, 

Set sail for that distant shore 
Where the rulers in Greek tongue were 

speaking, 
Who had opened the land's long-closed 
door. 

From all countries these kings sought to bor- 
row 
Much valued, historical pages. 
Which to the world's infinite sorrow 

Are lost for enquiring ages. 
The greatest books Ptolemy treasured, 

To the owners sent copies well-penned. 
With a sum of gold, carefully measured. 
That complaints they might never dare 
send. 

134 



The volumes by thousands were numbered. 

With worth far too great to be known. 
When eleven Greek Ptolemies slumbered 

To a wonder world-wide they had grown. 
Cleopatra, not least of your mad wiles, 

In result, was conceived, on that day 
When Caesar, urged on by your false smiles, 

Burned your brother's armed fleet in the 
bay. 
Twas war time: the red galleys floated 

To the shore, the hot fire soon spread — 
All was lost of the library noted, 

On the world's riches fast the flames fed. 

From your granaries you squandered the 
corn- wealth. 

From your people you taxed the last 
breath, 
Not for buildings, for army, for truth, health, 

But a song and a dance to the death. 
Tis not your mad life that we most mourn, 

Nor the heroes whose cards you did play. 
But peasants, poor, half -clothed, forlorn. 

And armies you turned in a day. 
The face of the conflict was oft changed, 

To Asia, to Rome, and to Greece, 
Your influence o'er the wide seas ranged. 

In the end, only death brought you peace. 

We wander through narrow, bright highways — 

They say 'tis Mahomet's birthday — 
Down crowded and noisy, dark byways, 

O'ershadowed by broad awnings gay; 
In the midst, Pompey's pillar, the only 

Tall monument left on the sand: 
Thoughtless present, and gray past so lonely 

That blend at the gates of the land. 
IS6 



SUNSET ON THE COLUMBIA RIVER 

(Oregon) 

Sunset on broad Columbia! Burnished gold 

Reflected from the sky's deep-lighted edge, 
Which mountains, bluest of the blue, enfold. 

Above the green-banked river — one long ledge 
Of deepest turquoise 'neath the amber sky; 

The stream another sky, smooth-glazed below; 
Between, four giant snow-peaks, clear and high, 

Their huge forms on the sea of color throw. 

Saint Helen's stands, in snowy mantle dressed, 

A gorgeous, marble, scintillating dome. 
Where rosy light her outUne has impressed — 

A perfect wave of sunset-tinted foam — 
From base to summit rising o'er the range. 

Not even her white foot hidden by the hills, 
A vision beautiful, and new, and strange. 

That all the waving sheen with glory fills. 

And then Mount Rainier, peering o'er the heights, 

To view Columbia flowing broadly by. 
Though distant, clearly seen on such June nights. 

Its double point all whitely clad and high. 
Mount Adams, too, is far away, its peaks 

Standing as crystal on the golden sky; 
Not glorious, but purely white, it seeks 

Each color-loving, moimtain-loving eye. 

Moimt Jefferson, the pyramid, called, "Hail!" 
To Mount Hood's peak, suffused in rosy Hght, 

Until the sky tints growing faint and pale. 

Mount Hood, a phantom, rose up in the night; 

Glorious in simhght, delicate in shade, 
136 



A dream of radiance, spirit of the night, 
Whose beauties ever change, but never fade — 
The subtle, wondrous, gracious power of light. 



TO PIKE'S PEAK 

Giant of the pleasing valleys. 
Sentinel of the boundless plain, 

Clear-cut on a sky of azure. 
Drawing o*er it clouds and rain; 

Broad, majestic, red, and barren. 
Boulder-strewn above the pines. 

Cherishing the fairest blossoms 
In its hard and rugged Unes ! 

Peak of grandeur! Peak of beauty ! 

Found a century since by Pike; 
Rearing high its rocky headland. 

Seeming misty clouds to strike; 

Beckoning to the snow and rain-drops, 
Clasping close each flower bright, 

'Till, straight looking towards the "Far 
West," 
Pike's Peak bids the sun, "Good Night." 



137 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

ililiillil" 

018 360 175 1 





